#it sort of tells a story but not perfectly

[cressidagrey]

It's a Love Story - Chapter 7

Summary:

Azriel's shadows find their master a wife.

Azriel would just really like his heart not to get broken again.

And Sky...well, she's just really surprised that that far too handsome male is interested in her at all.

Warning:

Rhys Bashing (as usual), I classified this as Azriel x OC, even when it't technically Azriel x Sellyn Drake (but we kinda know nothing about Sellyn Drake other than that she writes books so Sky is kinda an OC), Cassian is kinda a good guy for once, Azriel has a horrible time, as usual... Stuttering, toxic families (For once I do not mean the IC), Self-Esteem Issues, Secret Identity, Body Image Issues, Fat Shaming, People being utterly horrible. Also Retconning from Nesta's Spring Birthday to like late November, just because otherwise my plot doesn't work.

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

Sky had kinda waited for the two of them to have screeching arguments…as soon as the happy bubble of a new mating bond fell away. 

But…nothing of that sort had happened.

“Let’s just keep it just for us for a little while,” he had whispered and she had agreed, curled up in his arms. Just them.

Just for a little while. Nobody else’s opinion did really matter after all. And she knew that there would be numerous opinion be had about the fact that hse had met her mate and then moved in with him in the span of less than a day…and that the two of them were utterly and deliriously happy since then. 

Just the two of them - at least for a little while longer. Sky knew that they would have to tell their friends and family eventually, that they couldn't stay in their little bubble forever, but she was in no rush. The world could wait. For now, she was perfectly content to just be with Azriel.

And they didn’t fight. About anything. 

It was...weird. 

She was waiting for arguments. She was waiting for screaming and to be told that she wasn’t enough…for him to finally realie that he had made a grave mistake…but nothing happened. 

He didn’t care that she stuffed all his bookcases with her books…or rather that his shadows did, painstakingly replicating the order she had had in her little apartment. 

Azriel even made nice with Hector and bought him tuna, jut for her sake…

She had caught Azriel and Hector curled up on the couch together last week - Azriel reading a book and Hector sprawled on his lap. She'd stared at them for a long moment. He had let Hector drool all over his shirt. Azriel had looked up at her with a sheepish grin when he noticed her staring. "He's very cuddly," he'd said, as if that was all the explanation that was needed.

Sky had just laughed, shaking her head as she made her way over to them, sitting down next to Azriel. She had rested her head on his shoulder, reaching out to pet the cat. Hector purred loudly in approval, nudging his head against Sky's hand, and she couldn't help but smile.

Azriel kept odd hours for his work, sometimes disappearing in the middle of the night or coming home then too…but Sky did too, so it didn’t bother her.

He always made time for her - making them breakfast or bringing her coffee or leaving little notes for her. 

And she horded it all away like a dragon did with it’s hoard, wanting to enjoy that just a little while longer. 

Sky made sure to do the same for him. She knew he never slept much, so she always left a cup of tea by his bed if he was late in returning, and always left some food for him… She found him a new salve for the scars on his hand, massaging it in with all the patience in the world when he admitted to her that the muscles and joints hurt as it got colder… She bought him sweets from the same little shop in the Rainbow she got her own stash of caramel candies from… She wanted to take care of him, even if she knew Azriel would never ask for it.

She loved the way he held her, as if he would never let her go. She loved the way he whispered her name as he kissed down her body, and the way he held her once they were finished, his wings wrapping around them and cocooning her in warmth. Sky had never imagined that she could be loved like this, but Azriel made her feel like she was the most precious thing in the world.

And if Azriel wasn’t there…the shadows were.

They had become her constant companions - sliding beneath doors and around walls and windows, following her through the house. At first, the shadows had been startling, but she had quickly grown used to them - they seemed to relish draping themselves over her, wrapping around her wrists, her ankles, her shoulders. The shadows would stroke at her face and whisper her name, and Sky had taken to speaking to them as well, asking them about Azriel or if they could bring her things or fetch Hector.

It was...nice not being alone anymore. Sky had never realized how lonely she had been in her little apartment, but now that she had the shadows - and Azriel - she didn’t want to go back. She loved the way the shadows seemed to watch over her, always present even if Azriel was not. And in their own way, the shadows cared for her too, always there to provide a steadying or comforting presence - or to bring her a cup of tea, or fetch her a book she needed for research...

And besides, the shadows were much better at moving furniture than Sky was. She had quickly learned that if she needed something rearranged or moved and Azriel was not around to do it, the shadows were more than happy to help.

But most of all, the shadows had come to represent Azriel to her - they were always with her, always watching over her, and she knew that even if Azriel could not be there, the shadows would always look out for her. They would keep her safe. 

It was a strange and unexpected sense of comfort, but Sky had come to cherish it. She never felt truly alone anymore, not with the shadows constantly at her back, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

And if Azriel was there…well.

The sex was better than anything she had ever imagined.

Sometimes she woke up to him between her thighs, right in the middle of throes of her pleasure, her whole body still heavy with sleep and drenched with wetness. 

He made her feel wanted, desired in a way that she had never experienced before. He never tired of her, always wanting to be close her, and she never tired of him. Every touch felt like a new discovery, and Sky was learning Azriel’s body like she had never learned anything else in her life, learning what made him moan and tremble and beg for more. She loved the way he touched her, the way he kissed her, and the way he whispered her name as he moved inside her.

But it wasn't just about the physical pleasure.

After sex…when it was just the two of them curled up in their bed, his wings wrapped around her, his head bedded on body more often than not…they talked. A truth for a truth.

She learned more about him. About his horrible sweet tooth. About the scars that covered his hands…she had traced them one evening and he had looked at her…looked at her in wonder.

He opened up to her about so many things, telling her stories from his childhood, about the horrors of the war, and about his family. Sky listened to all of it, her heart breaking for all the pain and suffering he had endured, and vowing to spend the rest of her life making him happy. And in turn, she shared her own stories with him, telling him things she had never told anyone else. It felt...good to let go of all the secrets and burdens she had carried for so long, and to know that Azriel was there to listen and to understand.

He never once cared about her stuttering. Never once rushed her.

Though she could feel… she felt so safe with him…that the stutter eased. Still there but sometimes she could go whole sentences without stuttering once..

Azriel was always patient with her, letting her take her time when she needed it, and never making her feel rushed. And to her surprise, her stutter had eased, bit by bit.

It was a strange feeling, not having to struggle through every word, to speak without fear of being judged or laughed at. And Azriel never drew attention to it, never made her feel as if she was something to be pitied or fixed. He just accepted her for who she was - stutter and all.

Sky was…so very grateful for that. She could trust Azriel with her deepest fears and insecurities, and he would always be there for her, supporting her and encouraging her. And in turn, she would do the same for him.

Being with him was so easy.

So easy, and so natural. It felt like they had been together for years, not just weeks. She couldn't imagine her life without Azriel, and she never wanted to. He made her laugh, and he made her feel loved and he wanted her.

That was probably the most startling thing.  

Sky was working on her desk, that overlooked the lake, while Azriel preferred to work upstairs in his office, and a cup of tea was gently put down next to her, a kiss pressed against the crown of her head. She couldn’t help but lean back into him with a happy sigh, tipping up her head, turning towards Azriel and letting him kiss her properly.

“Sky?” He asked softly as she leaned into the touch of the hand on her shoulder.

She hummed in answer.

“Isn’t one of your books coming out soon?” Azriel asked her softly.

“In three weeks, just in time for winter solstice shopping,” Sky answered absentmindedly. “Why?”

Azriel was quiet for a moment, his hand still resting on her shoulder. "How high are the chances that I could…have an early copy?" Azriel asked, sounding nearly hesitant.

Sky turned to face him, raising an eyebrow. "You want an early copy of my book?" she asked, curious. Azriel's nod was immediate. A slow smile spread across Sky's face. "You want to read it?” she asked him hesitantly. He wanted to read her book? 

“I do want to read it. And I also have a friend who adores your books and her birthday is coming up…” Azriel said softly. “She’s important to me. Like a little sister. Her name is Nesta. And I think she may be your biggest fan.”

Sky blinked in surprise, touched by Azriel's words. She knew how much Azriel cared about his family, and to hear him describe Nesta as a little sister was...well, it was sweet. She couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride knowing that her books had made such an impression on someone so important to him.

She opened the drawer of her desk and pulled out one of the dozen or so she had stashed in there. At his surprised look she just shrugged. “I always get a few from the first print run,” she said drily.

Azriel took the book from her hands, his gaze softening as he looked down at the cover. "Thank you," he said quietly, his fingers tracing over the embossed title of the book. "I know she'll love it."

“Just tell her to please not let the newspaper get their hands on it,” Sky said drily, making him laugh. 

“She’ll protect this book fiercely,” he told her sagely. “Would you…sign it?” Azriel asked her. 

Sky hesitated. She had never once signed any of her books. Had never written the name Sellyn Drake as an autograph. 

But for Azriel...she could do it. For Nesta. 

So she took the book back, dipped her quill in her ink, flicking it off twice, and then wrote a short message to Nesta - wishing her a happy birthday and hoping that she enjoyed the book. 

Sky signed Sellyn Drake at the bottom, the movement feeling surprisingly natural… and felt strangely vulnerable as she handed the book back to Azriel.

Azriel looked down at the inscription, reading it over carefully before looking back at Sky. "Thank you," he said again, his voice soft and tender. "This means a lot to me, and to her."

Sky felt a warm glow settle over her, and she knew in that moment that she would do anything for Azriel. Anything to make him happy.

“You are very welcome,” she said simply.

He leaned down and kissed her, and Sky melted into the kiss, wrapping her arms around Azriel's neck and pulling him closer. For a moment, the world outside their little bubble of happiness seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of them.

***

“It seems like we need to come to some sort of agreement,” Azriel said tightly.

Hector the cat was staring at him with one eye and doing his best to intimidate him into life-long obedience, from where he was sitting in front of Azriel, who was sitting on the couch. 

"I am not going to stop sleeping in Sky's bed," he told the cat, crossing his arms. "I am not going to stop cuddling with her." Hector hissed at him in response, clearly not a fan of the fact that Azriel was going to stick around. 

It was a potential problem. Azriel glared at the ugly cat.

If it even was a cat. Sometimes he wasn't quite sure. Maybe it was a stunted Mountain Lion. It was quite big for a normal cat. And uglier than that.

"You know, I am not above pretending to be allergic to you," he told the cat drily. Especially if Hector kept scratching him.

Hector shot him a disdainful look, clearly not worried. And then swiped out a paw to smack at Azriel's naked feet, claws carefully withdrawn. 

Azriel scowled down at the cat. "You're lucky Sky loves you so much," he muttered, glaring at Hector.

"We can agree to get along. I'll buy you that ridiculous expensive Tuna you like and you can come join us when we cuddle on the couch. Or we can draw a line in the sand and see who comes out on top." Azriel raised an eyebrow.

Drily he reflected that this was how far he had come. Trying to bargain with the ugliest cat he had ever seen.

Hector stared back at him for a moment, before finally letting out a "Meow" as if to say, "Fine, fine, you can stay - for now." 

Azriel let out a sigh of relief, glad that the cat had finally agreed to some sort of truce. And he knew that Sky would be happy too - she loved that mangly cat more than anything. So he would put up with Hector - for Sky's sake.

Hector smacked him on the arm and crawled into his lap.

Azriel hesitantly petted his head. “You do realize you weigh a ton, right?” he told the cat drily.

Sky had told him that he had been all skin and bones when she had found him. Yeah, that was definitely no longer true.

Hector rolled over on his back, demanding belly rubs.

Azriel sighed, shaking his head as he reluctantly obliged, rubbing Hector's belly, where the cat’s fur was patchy. 

 Azriel couldn't deny that the cat was oddly endearing, even if he would never admit it out loud. And as Hector purred contentedly in his lap, Azriel couldn't help but smile.

Maybe he could put up with this cat after all. For Sky's sake, of course.

Just for Sky. 

Just for Sky's sake, he bought the cat ridiculous expensive treats, a scratching post and toys.

And he found that, as the weeks went on, he didn't mind as much when Hector would jump into bed with them in the middle of the night, curling up next to Sky. Or when he would bat at Azriel's toes while he read.

Nobody ever needed to know when he asked Gwyn to help him find some books about cats and their proper nourishment and exercise.

"Thank you," he thanked the red headed priestess when she handed him a whole stack of them at the end of their next private dagger lesson.

"No, thank you.  Finally I can pay you back for all the dagger lessons," Gwyn said with a bright grin. "Are you...Are you thinking about adopting a cat?" she asked him curiously.

"No. A friend did," he answered truthfully.

"Making nice with it then?" Gwyn asked him and he sighed.

"I am pretty sure the cat plots my murder on a daily basis," he answered only half joking.

Gwyn laughed, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Have you tried giving it treats?" Gwyn suggested helpfully.

Azriel opened his mouth to respond but at that moment, Rhys landed just a few feet away. Probably training with Cassian early in the morning, before they did their usual training with the priestesses and Valkyries.

"I even bought him ridiculously overpriced, fresh tuna," he admitted drily, making her laugh.

"Good luck with your bribes," Gwyn said with another laugh. "See you later, shadowsinger," she said with a wave over her shoulder. Azriel looked after her for a moment and then passed over to one of the weapon racks, starting his usual inspection.

"Dagger Lessons?" Rhys asked him, as he crossed over to him. 

"Yes," Azriel agreed. He could hear the inflection in Rhys' voice, a lilting question. He didn't even want to know what Rhys was thinking.

"Just With Gwyn?" Rhys asked, tone still carefully neutral.

Azriel sighed, turning to face his friend. "Yes, just with Gwyn," he confirmed. Azriel kept his tone neutral, almost indifferent.

Azriel went back to his dagger inspection, keeping his mind focused on the task at hand.

He could feel Rhys's eyes on him, but he didn't waver. He knew his brother well enough to know that Rhys was trying to get a reaction out of him. And je wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of a response.

Azriel didn't need to wait long. He could feel the talons of Rhys' daemati powers scratch against his mental shields just moments later. He let him in with a sigh. Was he officially going to get warned off Gwyn as well? 

Apparently Azriel was.

*If you want more from her, don't you dare pressuring her,* Rhys snapped into his mind.

Azriel nearly started to bristle. He wondered if Rhys even thought about how much of an insult it was. Ever thought of what it meant that he thought that Azriel would pressure Gwyn in anything she didn’t want. 

But he just answered flatly. *Then it will calm you to know that I couldn't possibly be less interested in Gwyn romantically.*

Maybe in another life. But not in this one.

*So what, you'll keep yearning after Elain?* Rhys asked him sharply.

Azriel looked up from the daggers, fixing Rhys with a glare.

*I behave. That's what you want. What I do or don't feel outside of that is none of your business,* Azriel gave back.

He was sick of this. Sick of Rhys treating him like he was some kind of reckless child who couldn't be trusted to make his own decisions. 

*I'll behave. As I always do.* He repeated that with more force, his glare hardening.

And as a side note, I am perfectly capable of handling my own feelings, Rhys. I don't need your interference.

The words hung in the air between them, sharp and pointed.

Azriel held Rhys's gaze for a beat longer, then turned back to the daggers. But he could feel the tension between them, the unspoken words that still hovered in the air.

He was so fucking done with Rhys’ meddling. Or with his brother not trusting him to handle his own feelings like an adult. 

*Oh really?* Rhys crossed his arms, wings spreading wide at his back. *How long have you been pining after Elain, knowing damn well that it would only bring you misery?*

It was a punch beneath what was appropriate. Both knew it.

But AZriel couldn't even fucking care at that moment.

He slammed down the mental walls, forcing Rhys out of his mind immediately.

Quite frankly, he hadn't thought about Elain once after Sky and him had accepted the mating bond. He hadn't fucking cared anymore.

 Elain could do whatever she wanted. So could Mor.  Azriel was kinda busy with doting on his mate.

Sky mattered. 

Sky actually wanted him around. Sky liked him enough to let him share her bed and curl around her and had not once flinched away from his shadows. 

Rhys could say and do whatever he wanted but he was not getting near Sky. 

"Good Morning!" At least Cassian was in a good mood.

Azriel barely acknowledged Cassian's cheerful greeting, his mind still reeling from his confrontation with Rhys. He wasn't in the mood to banter or make small talk. But Cassian, being Cassian, didn't seem to pick up on the tension in the air.

He plopped down on the ground beside Azriel, stretching out his wings lazily.

"What's got you brooding?" Cassian asked, eyeing Azriel curiously.

"Still figuring out Nesta's birthday gift," he said drily. It wasn't even a lie.

Cassian sighed.  "Good luck with that, brother. Nes can be quite the challenge to please," he said with a groan. "I still have no idea what to get her and I am her mate. I thought I would get her a new book but the only one she is interested in at the moment is the next Sellyn Drake book and that's not out for 3 weeks," Cassian complained.

Huh.

It seemed like Cassian may have just solved Azriel’s own gift debacle.

How high were the chances that he could talk Sky into giving him an early peek at her newest book?

Apparently it was as simple as asking. She gave it to him without hesitation, with a smile and he loved her just a little bit more just for that.

And he did love her. So fucking much.

It was so easy to be with her. So easy.

Azriel had never felt like this with anyone before. It was effortless to be with her, to be himself around her. She never expected anything from him, never pushed him to be someone he wasn't. She saw him for who he was, and accepted him completely.

She even accepted the shadows.

Azriel knew that the shadows were a part of him, and he had always been conscious of the way they might make people uncomfortable. But with Sky, it was different. She didn't shy away from them or make him feel like he needed to hide them from her. She even seemed to find a certain beauty in them.

She never flinched away, even when the shadows whispered against her skin...even when they touched her.

It was as if, for the first time, the shadows were not something to be feared or loathed. They were simply just a part of him, and she accepted them as such. She never asked him to change or try to control them, and it was a freedom he had never experienced before.

And quite frankly...he would rather stay with her, in their house and let himself be bullied by her cat that to sit through another family dinner.

But he did it. Just for Nesta. It was her birthday after all.

It wasn't going to be that bad. Probably.

He would just remind himself of who was waiting for him at home. That made it easy. 

And it wasn't even that bad. It could be worse.

Rhys even left him alone, mostly because Azriel did his best to stay away from Mor and Elain and Gwyn and Rhys himself for good measure, which left him with the conversation partners of Amren and Varian...and then he just needed to stay silent and let his mind wander to the feeling of Sky's hands when she scratched his scalp...the way she snuggled up to him in her sleep...to the freckles that covered her face...Azriel let his mind drift to thoughts of Sky as he sat at dinner, choosing to ignore the others' conversation. 

He knew that Rhys was probably watching him with a smug look on his face, probably thinking that Azriel was thinking of Elain instead. But Azriel didn't care. He was content in his thoughts of Sky.

Finally, they were handing gifts to Nesta, which meant that the evening was coming to an end.

Thank the cauldron for that. 

Azriel watched as Nesta unwrapped gifts from the others: jewelry from Amren, a painting of Velaris from Feyre…

“Happy Birthday,” Azriel told her softly as he handed her his gift.

“Thank you,” Nesta told him graciously, smiling at him. “Oh, chocolate!” He couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm at the bag of chocolate candies that was tied to her gift with ribbon. 

Azriel smiled, watching as Nesta excitedly tore open the bag of chocolate candies that he had bought her…Sky and him had taken an ambling walk through Velaris one afternoon, ending near the rainbow in a tiny candy shop where his mate procured her caramel candies from and he had picked them up for Nesta. 

Well, that and a few different ones to try for him and Sky.

He was just glad that Nesta seemed to like it. And then Nesta unwrapped the book.

“Cassian said you were very excited to finally read it,” he told her drily. Nesta flipped it over, eyes devouring the title.

“HOW?!” She demanded, her voice half a screech. A far cry from how composed and quiet she usually was. “How did you get it?!?” And then she was already moving to hug him fiercely, pressing a kiss against his cheek. Azriel chuckled, giving her a quick hug back. He was glad that she seemed to like his gift so much.

"Cassian let it slip that you were interested in the new Sellyn Drake book, so I thought I'd pull some strings and get you an early copy," he explained. "Happy Birthday, Nesta."

“What kind of fucking strings did you pull?!” Cassian complained pouting. “I went to every bookstore in Velaris and none could get it to me earlier than in three weeks.” 

Azriel couldn’t help but smirk at Cassian's complaint. "You know me, Cassian. I have my ways," he drawled. "Maybe you just need to expand your network."

“You had the shadows steal it, didn’t you?” Cassian asked him with a glare. Azriel couldn’t help but snort.

“No, I asked Sellyn Drake to give it to me and she did,” he said drily. “Though I'm sure Nesta couldn't care less how I got the book, as long as she gets to read it."

“Oh, I do care.” Nesta assured him immediately. “You asked Sellyn Drake? Nobody knows who she is! You know her? How? When? Why?”

Azriel chuckled, amused by Nesta's rapid-fire questions. "Yes, I know Sellyn Drake. I asked her for a favor, and she obliged. Simple as that. As for the why, well, I knew how badly you wanted to read her new novel, so I thought it would be a nice surprise for your birthday,” he told her easily, smiling softly at Azriel. 

Cassian still looked suspicious, eyeing Azriel with a critical eye. "You asked the author herself to give you an early copy of her book? Just like that?" he asked skeptically.

“Just like that,” Azriel said calmly.

“So she actually exists?” Gwynn asked him curiously, everybody turned to stare at her. “What?! You know I had my theory!”

“Gwyn’s theory is that Sellyn Drake isn’t one single person, but instead a whole group of incredible talented authors,” Nesta said with a grin.

"Oh, she definitely exists. I can vouch for that. She’s very sweet,” Azriel told Nesta simply, who opened her book, hungrily opening the front pages…

“…this is signed,” Nesta breathed. “Sellyn Drake knows my name.” 

He was pretty sure that he had heard religious people sound less worshipping than Nesta did at that moment. 

For just a moment he wanted to think about how it would be for Nesta and Sky to meet, but he forced himself not to. Not where Rhys could snap that up. 

“What?! No way!” Emerie exclaimed, clambering to take a look at the book. “Cauldron boil me.” She breathed.

“There isn’t a single signed Sellyn Drake book!” Gwyn exclaimed. 

Azriel couldn't help but chuckle at the others’ reactions. "Well, I guess that makes this a pretty special gift then," he said simply, sipping his wine with a satisfied smile.

“Very special,” Nesta told him softly, looking at him wideyed. “This is…This is incredible, Az.” 

Azriel merely inclined his head, accepting the comment. “I’m glad "It's not often that I can surprise someone who's as hard to impress as you are."

Nesta gave him a playful swat on the arm. "You know I'm not that hard to please," she told him. "You just have to know me well enough to know what I want. And apparently you do. Thank you.”

[fratttymatty]

The "Interview"

(All characters are 18+)

It was a cold Friday night in London, and four friends—Elliot, Jake, Micah, and Julian—stood in line outside one of the most famous music venues in the city. It was a milestone of sorts: they’d saved up for months, gotten their tickets with just enough time before they turned 18, and now they were about to witness their favorite artist, Central Cee, live in concert.

They were all from the U.S., fresh out of high school, and their friendship had grown strong over the years. It wasn’t just their shared love of music that kept them close, but also their shared experiences navigating life as gay teens in America. Each one had their own story, their own struggles and victories, but they found comfort in each other—through late-night talks, inside jokes, and nights spent dancing to the latest rap tracks.

Elliot, the group's de facto leader, was a tall, lanky guy with curly dark brown hair, a hint of stubble on his chin, and a sarcastic sense of humor that had everyone in stitches. Jake, the creative one, had a boyish charm about him with a mop of messy hair and a slightly mischievous grin. Micah was the quiet, introspective one, with a soft smile that always made him seem like he was in on a secret. Julian, the most confident and adventurous, had an athletic build, a razor-sharp jawline, and always seemed to be the one pushing the others to take risks.

Tonight, though, something felt different. Maybe it was the excitement of being in London, or the energy of the crowd around them, but all four felt a growing anticipation buzzing through their veins. As they entered the venue, a man in a black hoodie approached them. He had the swagger of someone who knew exactly who they were.

“You lot," he said, "you’re coming with me.”

Before they could ask questions, the man led them backstage, where they were ushered into a dimly lit room with plush furniture. There, standing with his back turned, was none other than Central Cee himself. The moment the door clicked shut behind them, Elliot felt a strange energy in the room, something that made his pulse race.

“Right,” Central Cee said, turning around with a grin that was both welcoming and knowing. “You lot came here to see me. But before you go back out there, how about a quick chat?”

The boys exchanged puzzled glances. They had no idea what was going on, but curiosity got the better of them. Each one was called up one by one for what seemed like a simple interview, but no one expected the transformation that would follow.

Elliot was the first to be pulled forward. As soon as he stepped up to Central Cee, a strange warmth washed over him. Central’s eyes glinted with something that made Elliot feel exposed, like he could read everything about him in an instant.

“Tell me something about yourself, fam,” Central Cee said casually, his voice smooth but commanding. “What’s your vibe?”

Elliot was taken aback. He wasn’t used to being asked such personal questions, especially not in front of his friends, but something about the moment made him open up.

“I guess… I’m the group’s leader, y’know? Always planning, always keeping us together,” Elliot said, trying to sound confident.

Central Cee smirked. “Sounds like you’ve got control, yeah? You wanna take control of your life in a new way?”

Before Elliot could respond, a rush of heat spread through his body, and suddenly his skin felt tight, as if something was shifting beneath it. His hair—once wild and curly—grew smoother, darker, and slicked back into a tousled fringe that framed his face perfectly. His broad frame shrank slightly, his arms growing more defined, and his posture shifted into something… cooler. He felt a tug at his accent—his American drawl fading into a crisp London twang. His clothes adjusted too, becoming baggier, more streetwear-oriented. A hoodie and a pair of well-worn tracksuit bottoms replaced his previous outfit.

The transformation was shocking, but what was even more surprising was how right it felt. He no longer cared about his past life as an American teenager; everything about him now screamed British roadman, and he loved it.

“Oi, you proper now, bruv,” Central Cee said with a nod of approval.

Elliot didn’t even recognize the name he'd had before—Elliot felt so far away. He was Rhys now.

Jake was up next. He had been watching Elliot closely, but before he could ask him what had happened, Central Cee locked eyes with him.

“Your turn, fam. What makes you tick?”

Jake wasn’t used to feeling vulnerable, but somehow, with Central Cee’s sharp gaze on him, all of his walls crumbled.

“I… I guess I just like to push boundaries. Take risks,” Jake said, almost unsure of his own words. “I’m always looking for something new.”

Central Cee raised an eyebrow. “New, huh? How about we make you new, yeah?”

Jake didn’t even have time to process the words before another wave of heat swept through his body. His hair grew out, settling into a perfect, messy fringe. His slim, artistic frame bulged with muscle, and his clothes morphed into the streetwear of a London roadman. A gold chain appeared around his neck, and his voice shifted from his American accent to a street-smart British one.

He felt a sense of ease settle into his chest. His friends were still standing there, but it was as if a part of him had clicked into place. He was no longer that shy, creative guy from America. He was something else now—someone who walked the streets with confidence, ready to take on whatever came his way.

Central Cee nodded approvingly. “That’s it. You look proper now, bruv. Name’s Connor now, yeah?”

Jake felt a grin tug at his lips. He was Connor now. No going back.

Micah was nervous, but he didn’t show it. He had always been the quietest, the most introspective, and he wasn’t sure what to make of all of this. When Central Cee called his name, Micah stepped forward slowly.

“Alright, what about you, bruv?” Central Cee asked, his voice softer but still commanding. “What’s your story?”

“I’m… I’m always thinking,” Micah said, his voice unsure. “I overanalyze everything. I never really feel like I belong.”

Central Cee grinned knowingly. “Well, maybe you need to belong to something, yeah?”

Micah blinked, and then, just like the others, the heat surged through his body. His hair fell into a perfect, tousled fringe, his body became leaner and more athletic, and his eyes darkened with a new intensity. His accent shifted smoothly from American to a sharp London tone. His clothes became the uniform of someone who belonged in the streets: a puffer jacket, ripped black jeans, and trainers that had seen some miles.

As the transformation completed, Micah felt an unfamiliar confidence rise in him. He no longer felt out of place—he was home. He looked down at his clothes, his new identity settling around him like a second skin.

“You fit in, bruv. You were always meant to be one of us,” Central Cee said, grinning.

He was no longer Micah. He was Liam now, and it felt right.

Finally, it was Julian’s turn. He walked forward, a little slower than the rest, already knowing what was about to happen.

“You look ready,” Central Cee said with a raised eyebrow. “What’s your vibe?”

Julian shrugged, exuding that confidence that had always been his trademark. “I’m the one who always takes things head-on. I don’t overthink. I just do it.”

Central Cee’s grin widened. “Good. You’ll fit right in.”

As the words left Central Cee’s mouth, the final transformation hit Julian. His hair fell into the same tousled fringe, and his athletic build became even more solid. His voice shifted to a crisp, confident British accent. His old American swagger was gone, replaced by the loose, easy movements of someone who lived and breathed the streets of London. The clothes shifted too: a grey tracksuit replaced his previous outfit, and he felt the weight of it like armor.

Julian looked at himself in the mirror, barely recognizing the person staring back. The name Julian felt like an echo from a past life. Now, he was Brayden.

Central Cee slapped him on the back. “That’s the energy we need, fam.”

By the time they all stood together, they were unrecognizable—not just in appearance, but in their very essence. Their American pasts felt distant and irrelevant. They were no longer Elliot, Jake, Micah, and Julian. They were a new crew now, a gang of roadmen. They were Rhys, Connor, Liam, and Brayden. And they had found their place in the world, alongside Central Cee and his crew.

As the night went on, the boys realized that the transformation was complete—not just on the outside, but deep down inside. They had found a new identity, a new family, and a new life.

And they would never go back.

After the transformation, Rhys, Connor, Liam, and Brayden became something entirely different—no longer just American teens trying to find their place in the world, they had now fully embraced their new roadman personas. Their lives, their outlook, and even their identities had shifted, and London had become their new home.

Their American pasts were like faded memories, barely a whisper beneath the streets they now walked. It was all about swagger, respect, and the code of the roads.

But the change wasn’t just about looking the part—it was about living the life. And soon enough, their new relationships started to follow suit.

Rhys was the first to find someone who matched his energy. With his newfound cocky, confident persona, it didn’t take long for him to catch the attention of Jada, a fiery girl with a sharp tongue and a gaze that could pierce through anyone. She wasn’t fazed by Rhys’ swagger or his roadman façade. In fact, she called him out on it immediately.

“Oi, what’s all this ‘I’m the boss’ talk, bruv?” Jada said, smirking as she leaned against the brick wall outside the club. Her dark curls framed her face, and the gold hoops in her ears caught the dim streetlights. “You ain't fooling me. You’re just another lad trying to play the game.”

Rhys couldn’t help but laugh, impressed by her directness. “Nah, I’m solid, Jada. You don’t know me like that.”

Jada raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Alright then. Prove it, fam. Take a walk with me.”

And so, they did. They spent the next few weeks growing closer, with Jada often pulling Rhys out of his comfort zone—making him think about things outside the tough-guy persona he had built. But that was what Rhys needed. He’d never had someone challenge him like that before.

They became inseparable. Jada was just as street-smart as Rhys, and together, they ruled the London streets. They’d walk hand-in-hand through the parks, both in their tracksuits, looking like they owned the place.

“You’re solid, Rhys,” she’d say, the praise always followed by a cheeky grin. “Just don’t get too cocky.”

Rhys grinned back. “Ain’t no such thing as too cocky when you’re with me, babe.”

Connor, the fiery and unpredictable member of the crew, found his match in Sienna, a girl with an even sharper attitude and a style that could’ve been pulled straight from a London streetwear magazine. She had platinum blonde hair, bold eyeliner, and a strut that made heads turn. But beneath that tough exterior, Sienna was sweet, loyal, and down for whatever her crew needed.

When they first met, Connor was quick to try to impress her. He’d never been the type to settle down, but there was something magnetic about Sienna. Maybe it was her ability to look him in the eye and call his bluff or the way she could hang with the boys without breaking a sweat.

“You think you’re all that, don’t you?” Sienna said one night, her eyes narrowing playfully as she crossed her arms. She stood in the doorway of a local warehouse, the music from inside barely audible over the sound of the street.

Connor shrugged, his grin never fading. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve got the look, the vibe. The streets respect me.”

Sienna took a step closer, her lips curling into a teasing smile. “Respect’s earned, fam. You ain’t earned it just by walking around like you own the place.”

Connor raised an eyebrow, impressed by her boldness. “You think you can teach me how it’s done?”

“I’m the only one who knows how it’s done around here,” she shot back.

They spent their days cruising around the streets together, from the markets in Camden to the nightclubs of Shoreditch. For Connor, Sienna was more than just a pretty face—she was a roadman in her own right, teaching him the ropes when he needed it.

Eventually, Connor realized he wasn’t just playing the game—he was in it for real. And Sienna was the partner he never knew he needed.

“You’re mad, Sienna,” he said one night as they chilled on the rooftop of a warehouse, gazing out at the city. “Proper roadman energy.”

“Always, fam,” she replied, looking at him with a grin. “You just gotta keep up.”

Liam was always the quiet one in the group. The introspective type. He’d never really fit in back in the U.S. as the thoughtful guy who was constantly overanalyzing everything. But now? Liam had fully embraced his new persona, and it felt natural. He’d found his own rhythm, and Tasha, a girl with soft curls and an easy smile, seemed to ground him in ways he never expected.

They met at a local pub one night when Liam was deep in conversation with Central Cee. Tasha had overheard Liam talking about the roads, about loyalty, and about the importance of family. It wasn’t long before she joined them.

“Oi, I heard what you said about loyalty,” Tasha said as she slid into the booth next to Liam. “I like that. Loyalty’s everything in this life.”

Liam was taken aback. Most people didn’t get it—not like Tasha did. But she understood. She had the same respect for the streets that he did, the same need to feel connected to something bigger than just himself.

They started spending more time together, and Liam found himself opening up to her in ways he hadn’t with anyone else. She pulled him out of his head, reminding him that sometimes the best way to live was to be present.

“I get you, Liam,” Tasha said one night as they walked through the back streets of East London, hand-in-hand. “You’re all about keeping things real. But you’ve gotta let go sometimes, bruv.”

Liam nodded, smiling softly. “I’m learning. You’re a good one, Tasha.”

Tasha smirked, giving him a playful nudge. “Ain’t no ‘good one’ about me. But you’re alright, Liam.”

Brayden was the most adventurous of the crew, always pushing the boundaries and diving headfirst into any situation. But it was Mia, a girl with bright green eyes and a sharp edge, who caught his attention. She was a force of nature, confident and quick-witted, with an easy laugh and a demeanor that made you believe she could handle anything thrown her way.

Brayden had always been the type to enjoy the thrill of the chase, but Mia? She was the chase. She didn’t take his cocky attitude or his charm seriously.

“What makes you think you can just walk up to me like that?” Mia asked, raising an eyebrow as Brayden tried to work his usual magic on her.

“I’ve got that roadman swag,” Brayden said, leaning in close with a confident grin. “And you? You’ve got that energy I can’t ignore.”

Mia smirked. “Alright, I’ll bite. But don’t think you can impress me that easily, bruv.”

It didn’t take long before Brayden was hooked. Mia challenged him in a way no one else did—pushing him to take risks, to not always play it safe. Together, they were unstoppable.

“Oi, Brayden, you’re all about showing off, but can you handle me?” Mia teased one night as they walked through a local alley, her voice light but full of challenge.

Brayden shrugged, a grin on his face. “You won’t even know what hit you.”

Mia rolled her eyes. “We’ll see, bruv.”

The Crew, Together

As time went on, Rhys, Connor, Liam, and Brayden—along with Jada, Sienna, Tasha, and Mia—became a family. A crew that ran the streets of East London, with their messy fringes and cocky grins, and they moved as one.

The bond between the boys had deepened, and with their girlfriends now a part of their world, their crew was unstoppable. Together, they hit the streets, ran the clubs, and lived the life they’d always dreamed of. They’d found their place, not just as roadmen, but as a unit.

There was no going back. They were part of something bigger now—something that couldn’t be broken. Their names were no longer American. They were Rhys, Connor, Liam, Brayden, and their girls were with them, each one just as fierce and loyal as their men.

Together, they owned London.

[procyonloser]

(serial killer au pt 2. Warning for serial killer things and dubcon)

Adam rolled over on the floor he'd found himself on, still drugged and tired from the last few days. He wasn't actually certain how long he'd been... wherever he was. He was just in pain, tired, and unable to think clearly anymore; in part, likely do to the IV coming out of his arm. The room itself was large, tiled floors with a few drains in the floor - to Adam, it reminded him of locker room showers, and he wondered if it was in some sort of broken down school. No one had come to help him that first night after he screamed and screamed, until his throat was bloody.

After the first night, Lucifer had decided on keeping him around, at least temporarily. But, Adam was a flight risk, according to him, and his size meant he could likely fight off Lucifer if he were to somehow get free.

So Lucifer had cut his Achilles tendons, after doping him up on something. He'd had a set of medical supplies, scrubs, and his ability to put in the IV made Adam wonder if he was in the medical field. Or, at least, he wondered it briefly, before screaming in agony as Lucifer sliced through flesh.

He tried to push up on an arm, still cuffed to a bolt coming out of the wall, except the connection found itself around his throat, a collar on him to keep him from fleeing. Not like he could go far in this state anyway, he could only crawl on his knees, ankles wrapped in bandages but only enough to keep them clean, not to keep him upright.

Adam was met with a shock of blood across the room, and a distorted mess of human remains that made his stomach begin to turn. The only thing that kept him from vomiting was the fact he could barely tell what was what, it looked fake enough that his eyes lied to his other senses that could smell the metallic tang of blood and cleaners.

A hand ran through his hair, and Adam jolted, some part of him hoping against hope he'd see someone there to save him, but it was only Lucifer. He was perfectly clean, somehow.

"You don't really know anything about me, do you?" Lucifer asked, fingers catching under Adam's chin, caressing his lip with his thumb. Adam almost bit it, wanting to take something from Lucifer, like Lucifer had taken from him. "You don't seem like the type that watches the news...or reads."

Adam's eyes moved back to the mess of red and white and flesh. His body began to shake, against his will.

"I've actually been killing for a long time now, across the country, but I've wanted to... test my craft, I wanted to tell a story, to put on a performance. I used to be well regarded, you know. But, I had a... fall from grace, people called it." Lucifer explained, using pressure to open Adam's mouth up, and he did so willingly. Fingers pushing into his mouth, rubbing against his tongue. "So, I wanted to tell that story. I wanted to punish them, to make them hurt too."

Lucifer paused, looking down at him with a half smile. "You're supposed to be sucking, Adam."

Adam panicked, trying to push up more so he would be able to suck on his fingers easier. He ran his tongue over and around them, bobbing his head, trying to copy any of the girls that had given him head, but it felt sloppy even to him, and it was weird to do on fingers.

"Good boy," Lucifer hummed, before continuing. "I take them apart, my models. I move them around, until I can make something new. My first creation was a fallen angel, and I hung her in a park, it was the holidays and there was a beautiful old wooden cross there. She looked amazing there, but no one understood I'd given her more purpose than she'd had. They didn't understand that she was art."

Adam realized he had heard mentions of this, some grim murders that had people paranoid, but he'd always been a big guy. He'd get into bar fights, he'd passed out drunk in the street before and nothing had ever happened to him. He was supposed to be safe.

"But, that's how I got the name Lucifer. The fallen angel. I am fond of it, truth be told."

Adam said nothing, trying not to cry as he licked the pads of his fingers, until they were pulled from his mouth, and saliva felt wet dripping down his chin. Lucifer just smiled at him, before reaching down to unzip his pants, pulling himself free in front of Adam. He was stupidly huge, and half hard.

"You don't have to, of course. I'm not a monster." Lucifer said in such a sweet voice that Adam nearly forgot the bloodied remains of a victim not but ten feet away,.

"I want to," Adam said, voice hoarse.

He wanted to live.

[swiftiefirefighters]

i do think there's a reason buck hasn't said the word bisexual yet, btw, and that's that he *hasn't* sorted through all of his feelings. i think he liked tommy and, to him, that's all that mattered. i think the idea that queer people need to experiment a lot IS problematic when speaking on the whole but also queer people, like anyone else, aren't all the same and sometimes you do need more time to reflect and think about who you are and how you define yourself. especially a character like buck, who has always struggled with his sense of self (defining himself by his job and how useful he is, changing himself to suit romantic partners, etc).

buck hasn't really sat in his feelings about his sexuality yet because at the time and all this time, all that mattered was that he's into tommy. he saw a future with tommy, and so thinking about it further probably didn't really (and likely still doesn't) matter a lot to him. he just knew, hey, all this time i thought i was straight, but actually i guess i'm not!

but i think we might get there, and i think it's really strange that so many people have just...decided they know where the story is going. we still have all of 8b and a couple of episodes of 8a to go, and the story is definitely still coming into itself. saying that it's bad representation of bisexuality to me is premature because we just don't know where it's going.

we just don't know. could it end up being really awful? sure. but it also could end up being a great story of someone who has always been searching to find themselves and learning to define themselves in their own terms. which may not end up being on your terms, or my terms, but it will be on buck's terms.

and i think that's what's ultimately going to be important. i still think, regardless of some of the things he's said that may not have been perfectly well thought out, oliver cares about telling this story. i think he's wanted to do this for a long time, and i think he really enjoys getting to play this version of buck, and he doesn't know what's going to happen anymore than we do.

maybe i'm being naive and maybe i'm being a little too hopeful but i've loved this show since i watched the first episode, even though that wasn't only about 6 months ago. I've loved Evan Buckley since the moment I saw him. I think it just needs time.

[inkedinfusions]

the imagery for that whole paragraph is STUNNING! I can imagine it so perfectly in my mind with the way you describe it. Istg the way you describe things is pure art in and of itself

!!!Thank you!! I find that I really like writing descriptive scenes. That is also why I struggled a little with the dialogue in the beginning, because up until the key, all the short stories I've written have no dialogue at all. I love love love describing spaces, feelings, and the character's metal state. I think they can be used by the reader to better insert themselves in the scene.

I love that you added this in cause I’m betting a lot of people might’ve been questioning if it was Zeke too

Yes! Its a logical conclusion on a surface level, but we must not forget that the Scouts had absolutely no idea that the Volunteers were a thing, and much less that they worked under Zeke. Also, it would be impossible to send anything to the island prior to Yelena's ship, as there were no other shipments to the island from anyone else, and Paradis does not have any radio technology yet.

same Reader saaaame! I can imagine it so perfectly in my head too the little smile he gave us 🤭 got me giggling and shit

Meeeee!! My sister is used to my bs so she didn't question me when I started giggling in front of my computer lmaoo

so I’m guessing then based off that line that I was right to have guessed last chapter that it is due to his future memories that he knows Readers name. That’s so interesting and I’m curious to see Eren potentially tell Reader all about that and just see what he knows

Ding ding ding! You were right on the money. I like the idea that, just as aot is a timeloop of sorts, fics are timeloops too. So I incorporated than into the key. My reasoning is: if Y/n is going to be an important part of the story, and future!Eren sends key memories to his younger self, then why would she not appear in the memories? Kinda spoilery but not really because its an Eren fic, he knows (being the Attack Titan) how the government or military would react to a random girl, much younger than any of the Volunteers, arriving to the island, and then becoming close to The scout squad. So in order to ensure her safety he ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ (<- you can probably guess but I'm keeping it hidden for my own enjoyment lol)

AHHHHHHHH THE TAPESTRY LINE AGAIN!? it’s so gooooddd!!! I’m so happy you used that metaphor again! I love especially that you used it for this line here “…a loose thread will ultimately be pulled by an unknown force, sending you tumbling down once again.” It’s just such a good metaphor and I love the way you’ve been using it

Tapestry metaphor! Tapestry metaphor! Tapestry metaphor! Metaphors and anaphoras my true loves.

girl I don’t know why you were scared about writing the scouts wrong! I love the way you wrote Hange. I thought you captured her more… eccentric and dramatic (idk what other words to use) personality really well and I also loved how you wrote Levi’s distrust of the volunteers

Aughhhh thank you! I always get nervous when writing new characters but they always end up writing themselves. Levi is def not trusting the Volunteers, but does he trust Y/n? probably not guess you'll have to wait and see.

oooo that’s interesting. I’m excited to see what they wanna do with Reader

:DDDDDDD

Anyway, thanks for writing out your thoughts! I always look forward to reading what you thought about the chapter, as well as any theories you have for me. Thank you for reading!

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐞𝐲 | eren jaeger chapter 8

⊱𖣂⊰ | In which you fall into a fictional world with the key to Pandora's box.

⊱𖣂⊰ | masterlist

⊰– prev   next–⊱

𝟎𝟖 | 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

chapter word count: 3.3 k

content warnings: blanket warnings

a/n: So we are doing this again, where I say that I'm too busy and the next chapter will take a while and then I turn my back and upload on schedule. Anyway. I hope ya'll enjoyed last chapter's cliffhanger!

Thanks for reading!

𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 are taken aback is a gross understatement; you’re utterly stunned. Your eyes widen a fraction, and for a millisecond the air, the ocean, and your heart all still. 

Never in your dreams –well, maybe some of them– would you have thought that your name would come out of his mouth seconds after meeting you. There are no introductions to serve as prelude to his words, no past interactions to serve as crutch for rationalization. 

The gleaming moonlight is suddenly much more brilliant, bathing you both in silver rays. Your hair sways in the salty ocean breeze, and so does his, matching yours in a gentle rhythm. The wind is much calmer than the storm that heralded your arrival, air strangely warmer despite the environment that would suggest otherwise. 

Your name in his lips is not a question, but rather an answer. 

He, somehow, knows who you are, as his tone does not ask if that is your name, but instead states it with the certainty only someone familiar with another can. It is strange, how his eyes speak of understanding, how his stance speaks of kinship.

You are frozen in place for what seems like eternity, but is likely just a couple of seconds. Hange’s enthusiastic voice is lost in the pulse of the sea’s waves, in the drum of your heart, in the whisper of breath of your unasked questions. 

How? Is the first one your mind asks.

Zeke, you reply, before discarding the idea. It is neither logically sound nor something coherent with the instructions and warnings you were given. The Scouts never knew about the Volunteers before they set foot on the island, never considered such an organization's existence in the first place, and much less one that Zeke led. 

Invariably, you know him. 

Unexpectedly, he knows you. 

“What?” you instead ask out loud, when you notice that he is searching your response for confirmation.  

You hesitate with your question, not unlike when you first asked Yelena who she was. It is terrifying how, just when you feel you have a grasp on what is happening, the rug is pulled from your feet and you are left dazed and confused on the floor. 

It makes you think that when you reweave a new carpet from your loom, when you believe you can see the whole picture it depicts, a loose thread will ultimately be pulled by an unknown force, sending you tumbling down once again. 

You are a bit embarrassed of yourself when he gives you a small smile and your stomach flutters just as your cheeks heat up. Maybe this is a dream you think, and it's not the first time that you are hesitant to accept reality, but it is the first occasion that you don't compare it to a nightmare. 

“Don’t pretend like you dont know me,” he says, further baffling you. “We both know way too much for that.”

“We do?” you ask, before correcting your tone. “We do.”

Eren tilts his head slightly, transferring his weight from one foot to another. “Yeah.”

You’ve noticed that there is a lot of space for silence in your life. Whether it contains unsaid secrets, unasked questions, or unresolved doubts, it always lingers behind you, never broken, never explained. 

And yet now, even with the uncertainty with which you approach the newborn conversation, there is implied solidarity in his words, in his actions. Eren didn’t try to pretend he was ignorant of you for the sake of having aces under his sleeve, nor did he attempt to trade that tidbit of information for another. 

Instead he came down the hill –because you are certain he was given explicit orders to not approach the ship’s crew– and talked to you, making it known that you had a connection. One that may only be just brought forth, but that came to life months before your first meeting, when he received his medal and his memories and his burden, and when you watched his story and his rage and his salvation.

You hear a whistle in the distance, and you whip your head towards its source, the sand and rock shore where the two Volunteers and two Scouts remain. You glance at them, too far away to distinguish their faces, their number, but knowing anyways who it is that stands there. Or maybe not, but you couldn't bear to think that your information was now obsolete. 

“I have to go,” you confess as if it is a great sin. 

Eren, who also turned his eyes to the shrill whistle, looks at you again. You swear his eyes soften, and gleam with something akin to… beholding? As quickly as these thoughts enter your mind you dismiss them, because, even if he could claim to know you through his future memories, it doesn’t excuse what you think you see. And so, you conclude it must be a trick of the light and of your perceived closeness to him through his story. 

He nods, not moving from his place between the dunes. You swallow, also not wanting to withdraw, but then you blink and the spell is broken on your end. The sand once again crunches underfoot, but then you stop when he calls your name again in a soft voice that is carried your way by the salty breeze. And so you cast your eyes upon him again, humming questioningly.

“Tell them your name,” is what Eren says after a moment. “They don't know,” he continues, infusing the word with weight, “but they learned.”

And it should be painfully awkward, how blunt questions and half finished answers are being thrown about, but there is no discomfort in the exchange. You know, and he knows, and you hadn’t realized how refreshing it was to just be, not relieved from the burdens but breathing in spite of them. You wonder if he has come to the same realization. 

“I will,” you say. “Thank you.”

“I’ll find you later,” he says. 

“Yeah,” you answer, almost tripping over your words. “Okay.”

You dont think to ask why until much later, when your feet have already taken you to the other side of the pier, sand crunching rhythmically under your robotic footsteps. Why he would tell you, and why now, and why in that way. But the more you delve into it, the more obvious it becomes. 

Eren knows what is supposed to happen (giant footsteps and crunching bones and the spray of blood and–) and is, in his eyes, powerless to do anything but follow the path already established by his future self, who is likewise chained by the same revelations. Perhaps you are as well, if the haunted look in his eyes is any indication of the unstoppable future that will be realized in a little more than three years. 

Still, everyone seeks salvation, even those who sacrifice themselves in order to save others. You and him are no exception. 

You will save him from his preordained fate, determined by his past, by his future. He will save you from your uncertain destiny, shrouded in mystery and paradoxes. 

Maybe you don't need to reweave a new tapestry just yet; maybe it's enough to only untangle the yarn. 

Hange Zoë is no less enthusiastic than the character you used to watch on Tv. Levi Ackerman is no less distrustful than the man you read manga about. They haven’t greeted you yet, as you’ve only just arrived to stand behind Yelena, next to Onyankopon. 

He glances at you when you arrive, silently asking with his eyes what held you back. You shake your head almost imperceptibly, imploring that neither he nor Yelena press the issue. 

“Is that her?” Hange chirps, curiously referring to you. 

You almost want to look behind you, to see if there's anyone else they might have been talking about, but you know there is no one else in your vicinity, and you're the only one who has approached recently enough to warrant the question. 

“She is the last one.” Yelena says. “Please excuse her tardiness.”

“Oh! Well, in that case it's so nice to meet–” 

“Four eyes,” Levi interrupts. “Now's not the time for chit-chat.” He turns to glance at you, before returning to look at Yelena, the de facto leader. “Expect the ship to be searched while we escort you three to our base.”

“I would expect nothing less,” is what Yelena responds. “Your caution is commentable.”

“Sure,” Levi says dryly, not an ounce of belief in his voice, signaling unnamed Scouts to march onto the ship and its crew. “Get walking.”

You all file in, walking amongst the dunes and rocks, with Yelena at the helm of your little group. You feel eyes on you, but when you turn to look no one in your direct vicinity is watching. Instead, you trip when going up some slippery rocks, too preoccupied with searching for nonexistent eyes, but fortunately Onyankopon catches you, grabbing your arm to prevent your fall. 

The rifle slung over his shoulder rattles with the commotion, and you feel how the others turn to look at you, before registering both your actions as non threatening. 

“Careful there, kid,” Onyankopon says. 

“Thanks,” you say breathlessly, heart still reeling from your near slip. “Sorry for the, uh, tardiness.”

“It's all good,” he reassures you, although you know your notoriety for being late is only growing. 

You also know –well, maybe not know, but you are smart enough to deduce– that Onyankopon does want to ask you about your reasons for not heading directly to the pier after the Volunteer in charge of letting you out of your small cabin reported to his post. 

But he won’t pose the question right now, where there is a great chance of being overheard, and where exchanging secrets would only cause more suspicion from the Scouts. 

There is no idle chatter as you make your way to the multiple tents that make up the Scout’s base, scattered around an open field in an orderly fashion. Small yellow dots light up the entrance flaps of each green structure, and there are multiple barrels strewn around. 

You once again feel eyes on you, only this time you are aware of who those eyes belong to. It is a given that the other soldiers would be apprehensive about the Volunteers sudden appearance, but you notice how their attention lingers a tad too long on you. 

You force yourself not to squirm under the weight of their curiosity, of their judgment. Yelena and Onyankopon get noticed as well, but it is you that garners the most attention. Because, well, adults are what they expected Marley to send, but a teenager? Even if you are older than some of the recruits and Marley didn’t actually send you, it was still something they didn’t account for. 

So it is strange, even to you, who was made aware of this prematurely, how you are included in the small group with the proclaimed leaders of the Volunteer faction. Yeah, you can see why all eyes are primarily on you. 

Hange reaches a tent that seems larger than all of the others, and enters through the flap, and the rest of you follow, flanked by Levi. They grab at the knob of the hanging lantern and the space is coated with light. On the inside there is a table and red chairs, two on one side, two on the other. Hange brings a third one from a corner, raising the total to five.

“Sit, sit!” they usher you, taking their place on the other side of the table. 

“Weapons on the table,” Levi says, less enthusiastically. 

You don't have any weapons to turn in, so you walk towards the chair on the far right and sit, fiddling with your thumbs before you remember to quash the anxieties bubbling inside of you. There is a strong sense of deja vu when you reach for one of the teacups gingerly placed on the table, noting with some sourness how bitter tea always seems to follow you in interrogations and introductions. 

You disassociate for a moment, choosing to retreat into your thoughts, rewinding your earlier interaction with Eren over and over again, not unlike what you used to do with his older brother. 

What sets it apart is the intention with which you are dissecting it, turning his words upside down to squeeze more of that refreshing understanding (You know, and he knows, and you hadn’t realized how refreshing it was to just be—) out. 

There is silence again, but this time it is filled with tension. You blink, unsettled by the lack of discussion between the two Volunteers and the two Scouts, only to find the later ones looking at you expectantly, Levi’s expression disguised with more finesse than Hange’s.

“…Sorry, what?” you ask. 

“Your name,” Hange clarifies. “I asked for your name.”

“Oh,” you say. “It’s Y/n.”

There is something almost imperceptible in the way Hange fiddles with Yelena’s gun, a recognition in both their and Levi’s eyes that you might’ve missed were it not for Eren’s insistence in presenting yourself with your name. 

You risk a glance at Yelena but her eyes are on you, not them, as are Onyankopon’s, so you let yourself breathe, halfway convinced they didn’t notice.

Hange does not miss a beat. “It’s nice to meet you Miss Y/n!” they say, drowning out your protests of Just Y/n please— and placing the gun back on the table, next to the rifle.

You nod, hesitant. “It’s nice to meet you too, uh, …?” You trail off, not remembering if they already introduced themselves or not.

“Hange Zoë, at your service!” They say, nudging Levi when he doesn’t say anything.

“Levi Ackerman.” And if you notice the distinct lack of add on like Hange’s introduction, well, that is to be expected.

Yelena takes the opportunity to steer the conversation away from pointless (to you) introductions and unimportant (to her) dialogue.

“So, about our proposal…”

She launches onto the plan you rehearsed and memorized with Zeke, drilled into your mind enough times as to prevent any slip ups of the scheme only him, Yelena, and you know.

It’s not different at all from the one presented in the series, and although you now have it branded deep in your mind, back home you had to watch several videos and read several posts in order to understand. 

The beauty of Attack On Titan was in the convoluted yet intriguing plot and themes, yet sometimes you needed outside help to comprehend half of the stuff that was going on. The fact that each character has their own motivations and their own secrets on top of the changing allegiances do nothing to help.

Still, hours and hours spent scraping the wiki and watching compilations finally pay off, and you’re confident in your ability to not only remember each plan, but also the people involved and the moments in which their loyalties shifted.

The motions are well rehearsed; Zeke will contact the nation of Hizuru, and Hizuru will contact the outside world, advocating for Paradis, as well as provide the blueprints necessary to help advance the island’s technology.

The plan would take around fifty years to reach completion, the amount of time that is estimated as enough to take to bring Paradis to a similar level technology wise to the rest of modern society. There would be a small-scale Rumbling to show off the island’s power, acting as a deterrent for nations with wishes to invade. 

Hange takes the gun again, pointing it directly at their face. It is unloaded, but it still unnerves you. You weren’t a gun savvy by any means, but the first thing you had been taught by Zeke when going over gun safety was to never ever point the gun at yourself, not even when it had the safety on, not even when it was unloaded. 

Yelena lists off the numbers of personnel in the army, counting all the divisions; the infantry, the navy, and aerial forces. Despite Hange’s and Levi’s best attempts, it is evident how frazzled they are by the revelation. 

One million foot soldiers, three fleets of twenty one battle ships each, new technologies and aerial weapons. Those are the new enemies that they must now fight against, a stark contrast to the mindless but brutal titans they are used to dealing with. 

“If Marley had such capabilities the whole time, why haven’t they attacked in over a year?” asks Hange. 

“There are two main reasons,” Yelena begins. “One; the Pure Titans. Even with the latest weapons available to Marley, they would hinder a land assault. Quite ironic that the very thing that is used to confine Eldians to the island also protects it from outside forces.” 

“Yeah, well, ain’t that funny,” Levi says. 

Yelena sips her tea. “Still, I’m impressed.”

“Impressed?” Hange asks.

Yelena doesn’t answer, choosing instead to take a sip from her cup. She looks at her right, directly at you, as if she wanted you to answer in her place. And you can't and won't ever be able to read her mind, but you’re pretty sure you can guess what she is playing at. 

“It's almost dawn,” you point out. “And we are sitting in a tent drinking tea. There is no commotion outside, no one hurrying to their fighting posts. There are also no protective structures around the base, suggesting that you have exterminated almost if not all titans on the island.”

It's clear they weren't expecting you to speak. Even if Eren told them something, the most logical approach to your presence in the tent was as a buffer, something for the Scouts to pick at, to find weakness in. Yelena is helping you overcome that, because, even if it would be easier to infiltrate them if you are deemed as non-threatening, the trust that would be placed upon you should you be assessed as capable makes them want to take the gamble. 

“And the second reason?” Hange asks. 

“Currently, Marley is at war with multiple nations,” Yelena says. “The loss of the Colossal and Female titan, as well as the defeat of their Warrior unit has given many of their enemies the chance to unite and retaliate against Marley.”

“If you guys are secret agents who infiltrated Marley, I’m guessing you came from conquered nations?” Hange asks. 

Yelena’s and Onyankopon’s faces harden– one fake, one true. 

“Oh, I’m right?!,” they exclaim after. “I bet you’ve got some pretty big backers to go up against Marley then.”

“Not quite,” Yelena says, and after a moment she clarifies. “Onyankopon and I are from conquered nations, but Y/n is Eldian.” There is only one truth in her whole statement, a new record. “We were powerless, forced to play soldiers for the nation that took our homes, but Y/n was deemed a devil the moment she was born.”

The fake backstory you're using makes you a little uncomfortable, but it sure was convenient. They wanted to paint you as smart, but not too intelligent as to outsmart Paradis. Dependable, but not a pushover. Eldian, just like them, facing obstacles even when outside the walls. 

You tune out Yelena praising Zeke for organizing the Anti-Marleyan Volunteers, calling him a god amongst mortals. You hoped that small, subtle discomfort showed in your face, so the two members of the Scouts present would notice that you weren't lost in reverence for Zeke. 

“We are the Anti- Marleyan Volunteers,” she finishes. “Our goal: To free the Eldian people.”

Levi and Hange share glances, no doubt discussing the answer they would give. 

“We would like assurance of your allegiances,” Levi says. “You will not be able to contact Eren, or any of the others for that matter, but we want the girl to come with us.”

taglist: @dressycobra7 @xngelsau @bloodchapell @i-think-im-adorable13 @luna4mnoon @yuuuumii @kermittears @binluvsu

ask or comment to be added!

[genderqueerpond]

pretty funny how every time someone tries to give Tegan a male love interest in an audio drama it somehow turns into a story about how much Tegan isn't interested at all

--- it's a curse why don't they stop trying ----

it's actually great. do the writers even know they're doing this??? my theory is that they're actually earnestly trying to write it at face value…. and then Janet Fielding delivers it ….like that….

and. well.

[dandelionjack]

just gotta wait 16 years, hang in there 🤞🤞

[heartduct]

If you're also reminded of "Sorry we couldn't do a double room for you boys", and you're curious as to how gay the rest of the tale is, here are some thoughts!

Spoilers abound, though you'll have to read the short story for yourself to see its full picture. This isn't a Sherlock meta, more of a story comparison and a series of connections. So:

The double-bedded room that the gentlemen decide to share is not the only double room at play in the story. Under cover of night, each man in his separate quarters falls under an illusion of sorts. He takes vague notice that his room is smaller than it had looked by light of day; that some of his items placed by the far wall seem to have disappeared. And in the space that was stolen from each room by this mirage, there stretches a single ghostly chamber. A room partly Anderson's and partly Jensen's, haunted by a deathly, joyous, beckoning entity*.

This of course takes my mind to the adjoining bedrooms of Holmes and Watson from Short's Strand illustration; the fanon idea that Spock and Kirk share a bathroom between their cabins; the shared bathroom in The Haunting of Hill House; the close quarters and calling-bell in Fingersmith/The Handmaiden. The intimacy of an adjoining space between quarters that oft permeates queer stories.

"It was about making him attractive, and there are so many undercurrents in the script for him ... The subtext is there; I’ve just disinterred it a bit." Mark Gatiss, BFI Interview (2023)

This short story was covered on BBC in 2006, and it was a rather straightforward depiction; I figure Gatiss would have liked to do something gayer with that scene had he adapted it. So, let's consider the themes and beats of the story when projected onto The Hounds of Baskerville.

"So we're living on the margins. And so, wherever you've got a margin between two types of culture, and two types of landscape, you often get a deeper awareness of the supernatural and the spiritual." - Revd Tony Redman, M. R. James: Ghost Writer (2013)†

Within the folds of skepticism and belief lies fear, in wait. During the search for the Hound of the moors, John leads us to the inkeepers and their dog. Believing their dog to be perfectly safe, they feed it, keeping it in an old mine shaft. They leave it to its devices in that lonely moor on the border of the military base between dreams and reality. Under pressure, they imply that it's dead, but later it returns, more horrifying than ever. And of course, we know what dogs and hounds and fear thereof represent in BBC Sherlock.

The entity in Number 13 follows a similar story. Through a series of letters containing "intimate", private, and individual information, we follow the thread of a corrupt and scandalous figure named Francken. This person is defended hotly by Bishop Friis, and housed by him too, despite Francken's unsavoury reputation; his practice of "secret and wicked arts". The Bishop soon tells of the sad and abrupt "removal" of Francken, vague wording which seems to construe death. But what is that thing that haunts the secret room between our protagonist and his neighbour? The thing keeping both men up at night; approaching Anderson at its door; grasping for Jensen's shoulder. Could it be that the lost, old rooms of the 'blood-sucker' Francken are the very rooms which our fearful gentlemen inhabit today? Well - our protagonist refuses to comment, and our narrator by extension may only suggest a relationship.

But we are lead to assume that the scandalous Francken is indeed the ghost, preserved by his own hidden document beneath the floorboards, lost to time before this nosy Jamesian scholar went poking around.

So, yes: quite a cute little comparison in multiple ways. Not approached in a particularly scholarly way, but we like to have fun! Spurred by the "double room" connection.

* The entity is also ambiguously gendered, though this didnt fit well into my paragraph.

† I actually haven't finished my rewatch of this documentary lol so its quite possible he mentions Number 13 and I am as yet unaware.

Number 13 by M.R. James

[liquidstar]

a friend who'd wait :)

[mymarifae]

why are people so sensitive to wear and tear on books. like what is with the "book abuse" thing they are objects you won't die if 15 pages in your book were dog-eared once upon a time

[homunculus-argument]

A story within a story where a mother sits her rowdy children down and tells them a story about a the world's sweetest, kindest mother who never lost her temper, never cursed and never yelled at her children, no matter how rowdy they could get. She would only gently, kindly told them to not do the dangerous things. One day she sweetly, kindly told her children to not go play at the riverbank, because it's dangerous and they might slip on the rocks, fall into the water, and die. Her children do not listen. They go play at the riverbank, where they slip on the rocks, fall into the water, and die.

And the sweet perfect mother of the story comes to the riverbank, sees that all her children drowned, and starts crying so bitterly that angels overhear her, and the angels say to each other, "she does not deserve this, this woman has never done anything wrong in her life, this should not have happened to her", and feeling great pity for her, bring her children back to life, and after that they always listened to their mother and lived happily ever after.

And the storyteller's children, who at this point are familiar with the concept that these stories are supposed to have some sort of a moral or lesson in them, interject to point out that their mother hasn't always done everything perfectly, she isn't always sweet, curses a lot, and as a matter of fact loses her shit at her kids all the time. She isn't like the mother of the story at all.

And their mother agrees: Her children are correct. She is not a perfect mother who has never done anything wrong. Angels will not have pity on her, and they will not bring her little shits back to life if they go to the river and die. So they better fucking not go get themselves killed in the first place.

[silverwhittlingknife]

#i will always be feral over this line because#is he lying? is he telling the truth?#and the answer is: yes#because before dick saved him tim clearly had no thoughts he was going to be saved#but after dick did save him well#clearly the fact that dick will always catch tim is a fundamental truth to tim#so he's both lying and telling the truth <3 (via @scintillyyy)

The other reason I think Red Robin 12 is a moment of trust between Tim and Dick is that Dick catches Tim.

Dick has a lot of issues with the concept of catching or failing to catch someone who is falling. It’s haunted his dreams.

(Nightwing #4)

It’s not so much the fall itself - Dick is fine with heights and with throwing himself off high places.

(Gotham Nights #10, Nightwing #140)

It’s about the fact he doesn’t make the catch.

One of my favourite bits of the Freefall storyline is Dick catching the Mother of Champions’ baby. Because it ties back to this fear of not getting there in time.

(Nightwing #6, Nightwing #146)

Nightwing catches the baby and is able to hand him to his mother. Wu Mei-Xin has never held any of her children before, it’s a lovely moment. It really caps off the growth Dick goes through over his solo.

(Nightwing #146)

And similarly, Dick being there to catch Tim is important imagery in their relationship.

Dick catches Tim when they’re playing around, train surfing:

(Nightwing #25)

Dick ‘catches’ Tim when he’s depressed. “You’re not catching me at a bad time”.

(Robin #156)

Dick is there to catch Tim as he falls apart after pouring out the water from the Lazarus pit.

(Nightwing #139)

And Dick is there to catch Tim as he falls from a building.

(Red Robin #12)

Dick’s grasp has never missed, when it’s Tim. It’s IMPORTANT to Dick that he make the catch for anyone, when they’re falling in front of him, but it’s especially important to him when it’s a child (and when it’s his baby brother).

Tim can honestly say to Dick “you’ll always be there for me” because a little part of him, deep inside, trusts that no matter what, no matter how impossible it might seem, Dick will be there to catch him.

[gwynbleiddyn]

Kerros Severan-Laidir sounds suitably impressive and completely jarring

[fairyhaos]

the small romantic gestures that seventeen would be

this has been in my head since april so it's really nice to finally!!!! be able to get it out :>

masterlist

seungcheol

maintaining eye contact as you talk. it's such a devastatingly lovely action and it shows how attentive he is of you, all the time, even if you're just telling him some silly story about something that happened at work. he pays attention to you, always, because he cares. he'll smile at you, looking you in the eye and silently encouraging you to continue talking even if the rest of the group isn't quite interested anymore, because he still is, because it's you, and he's always interested in what you have to say. 

jeonghan

sincerely complimenting your outfits. you quite like fashion. he likes being stylish, but he wouldn't exactly call himself the biggest fashionista, and you know this and are totally fine with that. but sometimes he'll look over at what you've decided to wear on your date, do a double take and very genuinely tell you what he likes about it. he tells you you're pretty every day, sure, but the fact he takes the time to notice your clothes even though he doesn't really care about that kind of thing? you feel touched that he's paying attention to something that you care about, too. 

joshua

holding doors open for you. he’s a gentleman, and also a little shit, and holding doors for you is the perfect way to be both. it's sweet, and helps you carry on your conversations without a hitch, and earns him a warm smile as you enter through the cafe doors he's held open for you. but he also holds the door when you're several metres away, just grinning as you glare and do that awkward hop-run towards him so he won't be standing there by the door for ages. nevertheless, the action is often mindless, natural, showing how much he always goes out of his way to help you, even with the little things. 

junhui

sends you pics and is like “this is us!!!!”. it's not ur typical romantic gesture thing, but it also shows how he just thinks about you, always. whenever he goes out anywhere you can bet he'll take a photo of two cats or two leaves or, one time, two cigarette butts on the floor and tell u how they look just like you two <33 even if you can't see any sort of correlation whatsoever, it warms your heart and you find yourself looking forward to the silly little pictures that junhui sends you. you have a whole album in your phone dedicated to them, in fact. he cries when he finds out. 

hoshi

giving you flowers. not the plastic-wrapped, fancily arranged flowers. just… flowers he finds. a pretty violet in the park that made him think of you. a sunflower from the girl selling flowers in front of her house because they're cute and he thinks you're cute too. sometimes the flowers are growing in someone's garden so he sends you photos of them, because flowers are pretty and it only seems right to send pretty things to the prettiest person he knows. and it feels more heartfelt to send you these ones, the real ones, rather than the perfectly picked flowers in the shop. because that's what you are. beautiful and real.

wonwoo

he becomes talkative when he's with you. this isn't rlly a gesture (most of these aren't tbh) but he just. he just talks so much when he's talking to you. wonwoo is quite introverted, and even with the others, he'll probably talk the least, but when it comes to you, it's like the words just flow out of him. you make him feel comfortable. he wants to tell you everything, to share every detail of his life with you, because there's just something about you that makes him feel lighter, softer, more relaxed. there are few who know wonwoo better than he knows himself, but he's more than happy with the fact that you're one of them.

woozi

smiling whenever he sees you. every time your eyes meet, every single damn time, the corners of his lips will twitch upwards and his eyes will crinkle just that little bit. most of the time, it's unintentional, and it makes you feel giddy to know you have such an unconscious effect on him. sometimes, he'll smile for your sake even when he's exhausted out of his mind, and that touches your heart, because he cares enough to put on a smile for you, to try and comfort you, to show you that he loves you even when he's like this. 

minghao

remembering small things about you. you swear that minghao probably had some secret file full of information about you, because you really don't know how he does it. you'll offhandedly mention something about your niche food preferences one time, but he'll remember it and randomly bring it up when you're out at dinner three months later. it's like some sort of magic, but when you comment on it, minghao just shrugs with a smile. of course he remembers these things about you. who do you think he is? 

mingyu

sending “goodnight” and “good morning” texts. every. single. day. it's so devastatingly sweet of him, and he always wakes up a little earlier than you, so you get to start each day with a brief, adorable morning update from your boyfriend. they're sometimes the only things that get you out of bed, and at night, you know you're guaranteed one last conversation with the love of your life before you go to sleep, and nothing is more comforting than going to bed whilst imagining mingyu murmuring a warm “goodnight” into your ears

dokyeom

holding hands. the action itself could be romantic enough, but he always has a specific intention, a specific reason that causes him to hold your hand. you never know how he knows, but when you're particularly stressed or overwhelmingly exhausted or simply feeling like you're at your limit, his hand finds yours, fingers interlacing, his touch warm and safe and grounding. it's like he always knows, like he's aware that he's your lifeline, that he's the one thing you need in order to keep sane. he holds your hand, and that small action speaks louder than any “i love you” he's ever said. 

seungkwan

“so, tell me how your day went?”. he's a yapper, he won't deny it, and firmly tells you that it's because gossip just loves him so he kind of Has to talk about stuff, Always. there's always something or other going on in his life at any given point and if he can, he'll 100% tell you every single detail. nevertheless, he's still aware that he can sometimes talk a little too much, so after a bit, he'll always settle down and turn the topic to you. regardless of how busy he is, he'll always find time to talk about you and what you've been up to, no matter what. 

vernon

tucking your hair out of your face. it's habitual, and he won't even bat an eye as he lifts a finger to brush a strand of hair away before it can get caught on your lips or fly into your eyes. it's sweet, but also a little unusual, so you ask him about it one day, as he's tucking loose curls behind your ear. and he says it's simply because he likes watching you talk, likes looking at your face as your eyes shine and you chatter animatedly, and he didn't want your hair getting in the way. he likes looking at you, he says. so he tucks your hair out of your face. 

chan

he's always planning “surprise dates”. it's so cute bc you always know when they're coming, because he's grinning ridiculously wide and looking so!! adorably!! pleased with himself before he asks you out but it's just so endearing that you always smile and laugh as you say yes. the fact that he never gets tired of planning things for you, for arranging days where he does things specifically for you and takes you out to do things that he thinks you will love… it shows how much he loves you, even without him having to say the words. 

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[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 1 - The Introduction

Summary: Captain Price has been fighting the requests to add an omega to his team until those requests become commands. You find yourself traveling half a world away to join a pack of highly trained soldiers to balance out their dynamic. Not all of them are quite so happy about your arrival, but you're a good omega who does as you're told.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, language, brief moments of panic on the reader's side, scenting, military inaccuracies, let's be real this is so unrealistic but it's a/b/o you're not here for accuracy.

Author's Note: I couldn't help it and I've found myself falling into the Call of Duty brainrot once again so here I am to bless you with some poly 141 a/b/o goodness. It's just part 1, I promise things will get better as the story goes along.

MASTERLIST | Next ->

“I don’t like this.” 

“Believe me, John, I know. But the higher ups are putting a lot of pressure on us with this initiative and I’ve pushed back as much as I can. They’re convinced it will be good for morale and team dynamics.” 

He wants to protest, but he’s been protesting this idea for three months. “What more can you tell me about her?” 

“Not much that isn’t already in her file.” Her tone is not lost on him. She can, but that’s not a conversation to be held over the phone. “She’s quiet and polite, a bit jumpy but she relaxes once she gets to know you. Remember, I picked her out myself.” 

That doesn’t make him feel any better.

He flips through the file again after he hangs up with Laswell. He almost has it memorized by now, having looked through time and time again since the letter was dropped on his desk three months ago. 

He stares at the photo, the headshot taken by the institute in her file. She’s cute, as most omegas are. American, but she had grown up on military bases. At least this world wasn’t entirely unfamiliar to her. He grimaces as he looks over her DOB below the photo. She’s young, younger than he would have liked, but at least she was old enough to drink. 

He sighs through his nose as he flips through her records. She’s been in the institute for nearly ten years, likely sent as soon as she presented. He flips through page after page of test results, notes from her instructors, personality and temperament analysis, essays and essays worth of information written on her and also by her. He didn’t care so much about what her instructors thought, he was more interested in her. 

“Christ.” He breathes as he pauses on the page with her statistics, rubbing his eyes. The file has everything in it, down to heat tracking and her early signs it was starting. 

As if he doesn’t have enough to worry about, now he’s going to have an omega under his care. 

He hasn’t considered taking an omega in well over a decade. Back when he had been young and reckless, he had once considered starting his own pack, but then his career in the military began to take off and he let that dream go. It became too dangerous, and he had seen many times what happened to omegas who were left behind during deployments for too long. 

His team didn’t need an omega. He had briefly considered it in the beginning as they adjusted to the new dynamics, but he knew it was too dangerous and their schedules were far too unpredictable for the sort of stability omegas needed. He had fought time and time again against the push to add an omega to the team. They had settled into their roles easily, and operated perfectly fine with the missing dynamic. 

Then the Omega Initiative was born and he found himself with no grounds to refuse anymore. Task Force 141 was getting an omega whether they wanted one or not. 

He can’t help the tickle in the back of his mind that something else might be going on. He flips back to the first page, staring at the omega’s photo. They’d be here in a week. She’d be flying with Laswell to London where she’d be given a few days to adjust before they’d fly in here and she’ll be left with her new pack. 

Price closes the file, leaning back in his chair. He has a lot to do in the next week. 

You stare down at the files laid out on the table. Four of them, hardly more than a single page each, most of which was blacked out. They’re all older than you, their birth years at least visible to you. Most of the things on the file you don’t understand, and you weren't even sure how tall they were since you can’t convert meters to feet in your head. 

You’re tired and on edge, nervous about tomorrow when you'd meet your new pack. You sit back in your seat, letting out a long breath. 

“I know.” Station Chief Laswell, Kate as you had been told to call her, takes the seat across from you. “You’re going to have to get used to hearing the word classified. What they tell you about themselves is, of course, up to them, but the things they do, the places they go, even with your security clearance as high as it is, that will all still be-” 

“Classified?” You finish for her. 

Kate smiles. “Exactly. It’s mostly for your safety. The less you know...” 

The less there is to make you a target. 

You’d been given that speech before you left D.C. You’d been given a lot of briefings, as Kate had called them, since you had been pulled into the director’s office at The Institute and told to pack your bag. You remembered Kate and the interview you had done a few days prior. It hadn’t been any different than the other interviews you’d done before, except that you were chosen this time. 

What had come after was three months of intense briefings and training, for what, you hadn’t really known at the time. They had told you little, at least until last week when Kate pulled you into her office and told you what was happening and why it was happening and where you were going. 

“You don’t have anything to worry about, though.” Kate continues, something you’ve been told over and over again during your briefings. “They’re all good men. John and I know each other well. I wouldn’t have picked you if I didn’t think you could handle them.” 

You continue to stare at the files. Two alphas, two betas. It wasn’t an unusual pack, evenly balanced, except for the missing omega. If the situation were different they may have elected to have two omegas to keep the even balance. This wasn’t a normal situation, though. This was a military pack, special forces at that. It wasn’t unusual for packs to form on bases, especially those stationed together for long periods of time. Alphas and betas united together with one purpose, one collective goal. 

That was why so many alphas were drawn to the military. 

That, and the excuse for violence. 

Omegas weren’t allowed to enlist, omegas weren’t allowed to hold many jobs at all. It was usually only in special circumstances, and even then, they were more likely to be assigned into a pack than be allowed to work and care for themselves. In a lot of ways you were lucky. You wouldn’t have to fight to find a pack, fight to find a match, fight for one of the few decent alphas left in the world. Your road had been chosen for you as soon as you presented. 

In a lot of ways, though, things were worse for you. 

“How do you feel?” Kate asks, looking you over. You’ve grown to like the beta Station Chief in the weeks you’ve spent together. 

“Tired.” You run a hand across your face. 

“The time difference will do that to you.” Kate says, giving you a sympathetic look. “Not to mention everything else.” Kate stands, stacking the files and pushing them to the center of the table. “I have a couple more errands to run, so get some rest. I’ll pick us up some dinner on the way back.” 

You look nervous. 

He can’t blame you. He’d felt a bit of a nervous twist to his stomach this morning as he’d finished ensuring everything was in place. He doesn’t often get nervous anymore, years and years of experience giving him the ability to expect anything and react accordingly. 

This is different, though. This isn’t a soldier he’s greeting, this is an omega. 

His omega. 

As Pack Alpha he had more of a claim to you than anyone else. It was his mark you’d wear, his scent that everyone would notice first. It was his duty to protect you, to ensure you have everything you need. You’re not another member of his team, you’re not even a soldier. You’re just a poor civilian that’s been thrust into this world of danger and secrecy. 

“Captain Price.” Laswell greets him, shaking his hand. 

He greets her back, but he can’t help his gaze as it flickers to the omega. You’re small, as expected of an omega. Your sweatshirt hides most of your curves, but your jeans hug your full thighs. Most omegas are small and soft, designed to be held and healthy enough to bear children when cared for correctly. 

He doesn’t even want to think about that. 

Laswell introduces you, your feet shuffling a bit as you step forward toward him. Coming from an institute, you likely hadn’t had much contact with alphas before now. You try to stand taller, look braver as you stand before him, but he can smell the tangy edge of anxiety surrounding your scent. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” You say, shaking his hand. It’s small and warm in his, your skin soft and slightly clammy. 

“The pleasure is mine.” He says, releasing your hand. 

You let it drop to your side, pulling your sleeve down over your fingers. You shift on your feet, your body language betraying your nervousness. Hunched shoulders, fingers tugging your sleeves over your hands, shifting your weight foot to foot as if you might take off running at a moment’s notice. Your eyes dart across the airfield taking in the movement around them. You’re on edge, alert, and likely a little overwhelmed. 

“I’ll show you around and let you get settled.” He says, his eyes shifting to Laswell. “You and I have some things to discuss.” 

You follow behind him with Laswell as he leads you towards the building that served as the 141’s home base. He points out different places you might find yourself visiting. The gym, the rec area, the mess hall, and finally their barracks. He leads you down the hallway where their rooms were located, pointing out each door before he gets to yours, sandwiched between his own and Gaz’s, with Soap and Ghost on the other side. 

He opens the door, letting you enter. He stays in the doorway, letting you explore the small space. Your bags had been brought in, the faint hint of the beta Corporal that had brought them in still lingering in the air. There’s four shirts folded neatly on the desk, one from each of them that they’d slept in for the last couple days to give you a chance to get used to their scents. 

“The lads are still running a simulation, but they’ll be done within the hour.” He says, drawing your gaze from the bed. “We’ll let you get settled in and I’ll come get you when they’re ready.” 

“Thank you, sir.” You say.

Laswell steps in as he steps away for a moment, letting the two of you say your goodbyes. You’d likely see Laswell again, and soon, but he knows after three months you’ll have bonded with her just a bit. 

Price leads Laswell to his office after she leaves your room, his ears picking up the sound of the lock clicking into place as they walk away. He’d left it on for a reason, wanting to give you the ability to feel safe and secure as you adjusted, even though you had nothing to worry about. 

“So.” Price says as he sits behind his desk, reclining back in his seat. “What can you really tell me about her?” 

Laswell gives him a knowing look. “The CIA has had their eyes on her for years now. The Omega Initiative as it is now, isn’t how it started. They were going to train omegas as agents, and she was one of the first names on that list. They had FIOT put a hold on her file once she came of age.” 

Federal Institute of Omega Training. The name was stamped on the front of your file. It was the highest rated institute in America, the place where most omegas born to politicians, government workers, and some military went. 

“They had agents go in and pretend to be interested parties just to make it seem like there was interest in her.” Laswell continues. “But, you know omegas aren’t cut out for this kind of work, so they changed the Initiative. She was still at the top of the list, but there were some...hesitations as to where to place her.” 

“What sort of hesitations?” He asks. 

“You saw those scores, John. She’s a good omega. Those purebred instincts are strong, and that makes her an easy target.” 

Most omegas born from an alpha/omega pairing were good at listening to their instincts. That was why they carried such a high standing, even among omegas. But, being so closely intune with their instincts made them more sensitive, more vulnerable. They were more likely to give in to an alpha, if the alpha knew how to play them right. 

Laswell pulls a file from her bag, sliding it across his desk to him. “She’d get walked all over in a larger pack, and the last thing she needs is to get hurt by an overbearing alpha.” There’s something hidden in Laswell’s words, his mind filing that away for later. “I need someone I can trust with her. She’s smart, learns fast. She needs a challenge, but also someone that won’t take advantage of her.” 

“It sounds like you’ve grown rather fond of her.” He says, flipping open the first page of the file. It’s the CIA’s data on her, everything they’d done in the last three months to prepare her for her life as a Special Operations pack omega. 

“Like I said, I’m the one that picked her for your team.” Laswell leans forward against his desk. “She knows what she’s in for. She was well prepared for this kind of life. She’ll let you mark her, no questions asked because that’s what she’s been told to do. She’s obedient, John, almost to a fault.”

“That could be dangerous.” Price says. 

“Yes, it could.” Laswell says. “I’m leaving her in your capable hands. She has my number, and so do you.” 

Price walks her back to the airfield, his head reeling a bit as he replays their conversation over and over. The hidden messages in Laswell’s words aren’t lost on him, and his gut feeling that something else was going on had been correct.

“Take care of her, John.” Laswell says. “I’m putting a lot of trust in you.” 

He hasn’t failed her yet. 

Your body is tingling. You’re not sure if it’s nerves or something else. You haven’t been around an alpha since the day of your presentation, when you had been pulled from your home and taken to the institute. You had nearly wanted to keel over when you came face to face with Captain Price. Your alpha. He’s a commanding presence, the tickling at the back of your neck still not quite gone even though the door is shut and locked. 

The bed is comfortable, not any worse than what you slept on in the institute. There’s extra pillows and blankets stacked at the end, likely for your nest when you finally settled enough to make one. The door to the private bathroom is cracked open, facing the end of the bed. There’s four shirts on the desk next under the window next to the bathroom door, and your bags are sitting in front of the dresser and closet situated on the opposite wall from the bed.

You push yourself to stand, ignoring the way your legs wobble as you stare down at the four shirts on the desk. They’re all olive green, folded neatly in the exact same way. You wouldn’t have known any different, except for the scents gently wafting from them, and the names on the tags. 

Price. You pick up the one that will be the most familiar, bringing it to your nose. Tobacco smoke, aftershave, something sharp like whiskey. All things you had scented on him in your short time together. Underneath you catch a whiff of his natural scent. Something woody, fresh. A tingle crawls up your spine, prickling in the back of your neck again. You drop the shirt on the desk, taking a step back to breathe in the unscented air for a moment. 

You’re breathing heavily as you go for the shirt next to Price’s. Garrick. You press the shirt against your nose, inhaling. Aftershave, different from Price’s. Some kind of lotion. Coconut oil maybe? You can’t pick up more than the base scent of beta, the soothing almondy scent. 

You take another deep inhale of it, letting the beta scent ease you before you let it drop to the desk beside Price’s. You grab the one next to it, looking at the tag. MacTavish. You lift it to your face, scenting another aftershave. There’s something citrusy mixed in as well, slightly watered down compared to the scent of the aftershave. Again, you can’t pick up more than the scent of beta, letting it ease the tickling on the back of your neck again before you let it drop back on the desk. 

One more to go. 

You pick up the last shirt. Ghost. The faceless one. You bring the shirt to your nose, wincing slightly at the sharp tang of gunpowder and metal, smoke and a lingering aftershave. You try to smell deeper, but your nose burns with scent blocker spray. You let out a huff, dropping it back onto the desk. 

This Ghost was dedicated to his anonymity. 

He’s going to be a problem. 

You sink back onto the bed, eyeing the shirts. Your senses have heightened, picking up the scents wafting off of them, mixing in the air. You pick up the sound of boots approaching, three pairs of feet making their way down the hall. You can hear them talking and laughing as they approach. There’s a pause outside your door and you hold your breath, sitting as still as possible. 

Of course they can smell you. You had sprayed yourself down with scent blockers before you left the hotel, but it had likely worn off by now. Even with the blocker, the scent of unmated omega wasn’t hidden easily. The entire base had probably caught a whiff of your scent by now. Caramel, vanilla, strawberries with the undertone of pure omega that made alphas go insane. 

“Coming, Si?” 

Your lungs burn as you hold your breath, and for a moment you’re afraid your heartbeat might be audible from how hard it’s pounding. Steps recede from your door and you don’t breathe until they’ve disappeared. 

You decide to unpack to keep your mind busy as you wait. You don’t have much, mostly clothes from the institute and toiletries. You don’t even have a photo of your family, that part of your life behind you. You put your clothes away, venturing into the small bathroom to put away your toiletries. There’s towels already inside, along with a few things like shampoo and soap. They’re all scentless, like the things you had brought from the institute. 

Nothing that could dampen your natural scent. 

You almost don’t hear the knock on the door, lost in your own thoughts. You take a steadying breath, hand hesitating over the lock. What if it wasn’t Price? What if it wasn’t anyone from your new pack? 

“Just me.” Price’s voice comes through the door. 

Of course he would notice your hesitation. He’s a trained soldier, he’s always going to be aware of his surroundings. You unlock the door, opening it slowly. 

Price greets you with a small smile, your nose picking up the scent of his aftershave and the lingering scent of tobacco smoke now that you’re attune to it. “They’re ready, if you are.” He says. 

You nod. “Yeah, I guess.” It wasn’t like you had much of a choice to say no. 

You slip out the door, closing it behind you. You’d ditched your sweatshirt, wearing a scoop-necked shirt to give them easy access for the scenting. Price leads you down the hallway, back towards his office. You’re not quite sure what to expect, the nervous twisting in your stomach coming back. 

“I thought we’d do it in a meeting room.” Price says, likely picking up on the change in your scent. “Somewhere neutral.” 

It’s smart, it’ll keep you from getting too overwhelmed by other scents or sounds. The last thing you need to do is panic and send them all into a spiral. Talk about a first impression. 

Price pauses outside a door, looking down at you. His gaze is kind, almost sympathetic as you take a deep breath. “Ready?” 

Not really, but you wouldn’t dare say that. You have to do this, and the sooner you got the awkward part over with, the easier things will get. You nod, hands tugging nervously at the bottom of your shirt. “Yes, sir.” 

Price opens the door, stepping in first. You’re glad for the few moments you’re hidden behind him as the scents in the room slam into you. Alpha and two betas, scents you recognize from their shirts. They stand as Price enters, and for a moment you want to stay hidden behind the alpha but you know you have to be brave. You were made for this. The words drilled into your brain over and over again at the institute flash through your brain. You have one job in life and this is it. 

You can hold power over them. 

The words from the book your bunkmate had smuggled in flash through your mind. “The Powerful Omega”, it had been titled. Authored by a progressive omega, it talked all about how powerful omegas could be, even those forced into traditional roles. You can get them all wrapped around your finger if you wanted to. 

You steady your nerves, clenching your hands into fists at your sides and step out from behind Price. Your skin prickles as three sets of eyes are set on you. Price is speaking but you’re not really listening as you take them in. You recognize the two betas from their files.

Gaz, you pick up Price doing introductions, has kind eyes. He’s tall for a beta, almost the same height as Price. He waves to you, offering you a small smile. 

Soap is the shortest of the four, more what you would expect from a beta. “Good to meet ya, lass.” He greets you, giving you a charming smile. He’s going to push your boundaries, you can tell. 

You’re beginning to see the dynamics already. 

“And Ghost.” Price says, your eyes finally moving to the place you’ve been avoiding since you walked in. 

All hulking muscle, Ghost seems to take up the entire room. Your heart flutters nervously as you meet his dark gaze, his face hidden by a balaclava with a skull painted on the front. His presence is oppressive, tickling the back of your neck. You’re not sure if you want to run or submit to him, every inch of him screaming alpha. 

Price’s hand on your back nearly makes you jump, your gaze finally drawing away from Ghost and back to him. “Come on, take a seat. Tell us about yourself.”  

Price sits at the head of the table, Ghost, Soap and Gaz to his left. You take the seat on the right, staring at the other three members of your pack. You jump into your spiel, things that they already knew if they’d read your file. There’s not much else to tell, since everything about you was in that file. That was its purpose, to make you look as appealing as possible to potential alphas and packs. 

“What about your family?” Soap asks, the sharp scent of your nervous energy spiking for a moment. “Do you still talk to them?” 

You shake your head. “Not for a few years. Institutes don’t really encourage keeping ties with previous packs, but I know there were a few omegas that did. It was hard to keep track of where my family was.” 

“Your father was a Marine, correct?” Price, even though they already know the answer. 

You nod. “Yes, sir.” 

“You lived on base?” He asks. 

You nod again. “Yes, sir. We moved a lot, but we lived in pack housing on every base. We were a family pack, and I was number four of eight by the time I presented.” 

“When did you get sent to the Institute?” He asks, almost regretting answering it. 

It’s a sore subject, he can tell by the change in your face and the slight souring of your scent. “The day after I presented.” You say. 

The tension in the room is palpable, Soap and Gaz’s eyes widening in shock as Ghost's shoulders tense just slightly. Price stares at you with a sympathetic look in his eyes. He knew it was likely shortly after, but that soon? Most would wait until the presentation had finished at least, and usually there was some downtime when it came to getting into an institute as well. 

“My father was a traditionalist alpha.” You say, something they also knew by your status. It was printed all over your file, squeezed in every place it could be as a reminder of your worth to whomever was reading it. “It was because we were already on base that they got to me so fast.” You explain. “It was my dad’s status in the Marines that got me into FIOT.” 

“What was it like, in the institute?” Gaz asks, wanting to change the subject a bit, if only to ease the sourness in your scent. 

You huff out a laugh, the corner of your lips lifting in a smile. “Not unlike the military, I think. We had strict schedules we stuck to every day. Everything was dictated for us, what we wore, what we learned, what we did with our free time and how often we got it. Even what we ate was chosen for us. We always had to be ready to be tested at any time, and we were always being observed.” 

“Your test scores were high.” Price remarks. 

You shrug. “I’m a perfect omega, or so my instructors always said. It comes easily to me. I don’t really have to think much about it.” 

“Did you really kneel for two hours straight?” Gaz asks. 

You huff out a laugh. “Yeah. There was one day...it was a couple years ago. I don’t know what caused it but there was something in the air. We were all on edge and worked up. The director got tired of us and made us all kneel in the mess hall during our two hour afternoon break. No cushions, no pillows. Just all forty of us, kneeling on the marble floor for two hours. Not everyone could do it. Quite a few got too fidgety, couldn’t handle the pain. Three even passed out.” 

“How did you manage it?” Gaz asks. 

Price wasn’t a fan of using instinctual habits as punishment. It left a bad taste in his mouth, and he can only imagine what else you could say they forced you to do with such nonchalance. 

“To be honest, I don’t remember most of it. I just let my mind go somewhere else and before I knew it the time was up.” You shrug.

“We won’t make you kneel for two hours.” Price says. “And definitely not without a pillow.” 

You smile softly. “Thank you, sir.” 

Price watches you, the way your eyes dart around the room again, the sour edge of your scent gone, but the tang of anxiety remains. You’ve relaxed some, though, your shoulders are not quite so tense and you’ve stopped picking at your nails. 

Ghost has remained silent the entire time you’ve spoken, eyes glued on you. You’ve tried not to look at him, finding your words get stuck in your throat whenever you meet his gaze. 

He’s going to be a problem. 

“There’s some rules we need to go over before anything else.” Price says. “You have freedom to roam this building as you please, but one of us will escort you if you need to go elsewhere at least until you’ve been marked. There’s other alphas on this base and I don’t want them getting any ideas.” 

You knew well enough omegas frequented the barracks on bases often. You don’t want to be mistaken as one. Even with their scents on you, you know that won’t stop some. You’re not even sure a mark will stop them either. 

“I want full transparency. If something happens you come to me, or you call Kate if we’re gone. If you need anything too, the same order stands.” You’re beginning to detect the edge to his voice, The Captain slipping through his more casual demeanor. “We have some downtime to adjust for now, but sometimes we may leave for weeks at a time. It will be rough, I won’t lie to you, but Kate pulled some strings and there’s an Omega Specialist that’s been brought in for you. You’ll meet her later, I’m sure she wants to do a full workup.” 

You’ve met many Omega Specialists in your time. The beta medical professionals that go through specialized training so they can assist and treat omegas better than regular doctors and medics. Most of them go through a residency at Institutes, studying and practicing on young omegas. The thought of having at least someone who might understand you on a deeper level is comforting. 

“I’m starving, let’s get the scenting over with.” Soap nearly whines, rubbing his stomach. 

His words strike a chord of nervous energy in you again. You had been prepared many times for the scenting. You’d seen instructional videos and done mock practices with your fellow omegas. Yet you feel like it’s not going to be enough. These were real alphas and betas, your pack. What if you don’t like the way they smell? 

What if they don’t like the way you smell? 

“If you’re alright with it?” Price says, looking at you. 

You’re taken aback by the offer for consent. You weren’t expecting it, as this was something you have to do. What would happen if you said no? Would they respect your boundaries? The fact you had been asked at all is shocking to you. You won’t say no, because you’ll have to do it eventually, and at least this way you’ll be walking around smelling like them. If nothing else, it might make this transition a bit easier. 

“Yeah.” You nod, swallowing down your nerves. “I’m okay with it.” 

All five of you stand from the table, your stomach churning with nervous energy. You try to clear your head, try to calm yourself so you don’t stink them out with your anxiety. You need your scent to be clear, to be as tantalizing as possible. 

“Don’t look so worried, lass.” Soap says as they gather around you. “We won’t bite.” He winks at you playfully. 

Your cheeks warm as Price steps up to you. He is right, that would come later. Likely during your first heat when Price would give you his mark and claim you as his. It wasn’t unusual for packs with multiple alphas to let more than one claim an omega, but judging from what you’ve seen of Ghost, you’re not sure that’s going to happen. 

He had a right to claim you too, but from the look of it, he was the least excited about your joining their pack. 

You tense as Price’s hands settle on your waist, lifting you up so you’re seated on the edge of the table, putting you closer to being eye-to-eye with them. They’re all so big, the natural consequence of genetics and their jobs. 

“Ready?” 

You turn to look up at Price, close enough you can see the freckles on his nose and the grey in his blue eyes. You nod, pressing your hands into the table as you bare your neck for him. Your heart is fluttering in your chest as he leans in closer, pressing his face against your neck. His beard tickles your skin as he rubs his face against your scent gland, warm breaths fanning against your skin. 

He pulls away just slightly, baring his own neck to you. You press forward, gripping the edge of the table as you press your face against his throat. You catch the scents you had picked up on his shirt in your room, the surface level scents that were environmental. You close your eyes, inhaling deeper. Woody. Pine? Spruce? It reminds you of a candle your mother used to burn. There’s another scent, the one that lingers. Petrichor, you think, rubbing your face against his scent gland. 

His hand on your side pulls you back from your scent-induced haze, and you force yourself back from him. You take deep breaths of the sterile air in the meeting room, picking up his scent more clearly now as it mixes with the others. 

“Good girl.” He says, squeezing your side gently. Something flutters in your stomach at his praise, some deep primal part of your brain preening at the thought of making your alpha proud. “Ghost.” He says, stepping back from you. 

You’re snapped back into reality as the hulking alpha steps up towards you, moving almost silently. You try to keep yourself calm as he stalks towards you, his sharp gaze burning into yours. 

He’s testing you. 

You won’t satisfy him, holding his gaze as he reaches you, his thighs pressing against your knees. One hand comes to rest next to your hip on the table, his body leaning in towards you. You’re enveloped by the black fabric of his sweatshirt as his other hand reaches up to tug his balaclava up. Stubble tickles your skin as he presses his face against your throat, breathing in deeply. He lets out a quiet sound as he scents you, almost akin to a growl. 

He shifts his weight, pressing his uncovered scent gland against your face. You close your eyes, inhaling deeply. Gunpowder and metal stings your nose again, along with the scent of his body wash. You press deeper into his throat, seeking out his natural scent. Something deep and musky washes over you, like suede or leather. There’s something fresh in there too, almost like eucalyptus. You press your face closer, inhaling it deeply. Your head spins, and you’re sure your knees would have given out if you hadn’t been sitting. 

Something rumbles in Ghost's chest as you scent him in a daze. While all alphas’ scents carried a natural musk, Ghosts seems to shoot directly to some deep part of your brain even Price’s scent hadn’t reached. 

You let out a quiet whine as he’s pulled from you, his mask back in place by the time you pry your eyes open. Ghost is leaning back against the wall, eyes back to their icy stare as he watches you. Your head is still spinning as someone steps up next to you, taking Ghost’s place. 

“How ya doing?” Gaz asks, eyes assessing you. “Hanging in there?” 

You nod, taking a couple deep breaths to try and clear your head. 

“You’re halfway there.” He says, leaning in closer. “Got through the hard part.” 

His breath fans your neck as he leans in, the familiar scent of beta flooding your senses. He was likely doing it on purpose, trying to calm you after the intensity of being scented by two alphas. You breathe in the almondy scent, relaxing into him as he scents you. Your hands raise, gripping his shoulders as he presses his neck close to your face. You seek out the source of the calming scent, pressing your nose into his scent gland. 

You’re drawn from the room and to the time your family took a trip to the beach when your father was stationed in North Carolina. Salty sea air, briney and clean, and something else, something soft. Like the clean linen scented spray your mother used on the laundry. You’re clinging to him, his arms around you as you relax into his scent. The tingling energy that had begun to build up at the proximity to the alphas fades as you melt into the calming energy of the beta in front of you. 

“Easy.” He says, his hand on the back of your head as he pulls you away from him. You take a deep breath, trying to clear your head. “Still with us?” He asks, meeting your gaze. 

“Yeah.” You say, sounding breathless. You knew scenting could be intense, but you hadn’t expected it to feel quite like this. 

“Almost done, hen.” Soap says, taking Gaz’s place in front of you. “Lucky there’s only four of us.”

He’s right, you think as you bear your throat for him. You’re not sure you could have handled it had there been more of them. You already feel like you’re floating, enveloped in so many scents you’re not sure what to do. That tingling has begun at the back of your neck as Soap scents you, your eyes meeting Ghost’s. The look in them has changed, his body poised like he’s ready to strike at a moment’s notice. 

Soap pulls back, blocking your view of him as he bears his throat to you. You press your face into his neck, pushing past the scents you knew, and that beta scent, looking for him. 

You inhale deeply, the scent of warm spices invading your nose. It smells like the holidays, cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger enveloping you. You can almost taste the apple pie, see the gingerbread houses. You cling to his shirt, holding him against you as you rub your face against his throat. 

You’re trembling just slightly as Soap withdraws from your hold. It’s subtle, but to them, highly aware soldiers, it’s likely clear as day. Your skin is buzzing, like the fluorescent lights above you. You can hear it now, the buzz of electricity. Your pupils are blown, the room suddenly clearer and sharper. 

“There she is.” The low grumble of Price’s voice begins to pull you from your heightened state, your eyes turning to him as his hand cups your cheek. 

You press into the rough palm of his hand, eyes picking up the grey in his beard and hair as he stands in front of you. He’s older than you, they’re all older than you. Older than you, bigger than you, stronger than you. A small tickle of fear begins to itch in the back of your mind, drawing you from your daze. 

You’re vulnerable, entirely vulnerable and incapable of defending yourself against them. Forgetting second genders, they’re all much stronger than you, not to mention trained fighters. You’d be fucked if they decided to try anything, if they wanted to do anything. You’d be entirely helpless against them. 

They could if they wanted to. 

It would be well within their rights. Even though you had just met, even though you bore no claiming mark, there was nothing stopping them. You couldn’t stop them, and no one would help you. 

“You hungry, pup?” 

Price’s voice cuts through your fearful daze. There’s a slight furrow to his brow, likely picking up the sharp edge seeping into your scent. Omega fear and distress was the one defense nature gave to your kind, aside from the omega itself. It’s a putrid scent meant to ward off alphas and betas. You’ve heard it described as smelling like sulfur, burning coals, gasoline, melting plastic, and sometimes even the ozonic scent that accompanied alphas in a true rage. It was a warning, but it doesn't always work. 

Pup. Price called you Pup. 

You haven’t been called “pup” since you were a pup. It’s a commonly used nickname for any status. You remember your father calling your older brothers pup, even after they presented. It could be derogatory, but it’s more commonly used affectionately. He’s trying to ease your discomfort, the fear welling up inside you. 

The door is open, the fresh air of the hallway watering down the heavy mix of scents that had become trapped in the room. Soap and Gaz have already stepped out, Ghosts hulking figure blocking the doorway for a moment as he follows them, leaving you alone with Price for a moment. 

“Alright?” Price asks as your gaze meets his again. 

You nod, still leaning into his touch. “Yeah, ‘s a lot.” 

“I know.” His thumb strokes your cheek, a knowing glint in his eyes. He leans in closer, lowering his voice. “Don’t tell him I told you this, but Soap nearly passed out when we scented him.” 

You cover your mouth to stifle your giggle. It wasn’t unusual for scentings to become so intense that the receiver passes out. You’re sure if there had been more than four in your new pack you would have passed out. 

“Come on.” He says, wrapping an arm around your waist to lift you off the table and onto unsteady legs. He doesn’t even grunt with the effort, moving you easily. The thought sends a shiver down your spine, but it’s not entirely one of fear. 

His hand is warm on your back as he leads you out of the room, the clean air in the hallway clearing your head further. Most bases have circulating air systems, constantly filtering out scents to keep things as neutral as possible. They’re less effective in smaller areas though, especially after scents were intentionally projected. Most military members wore scent blockers, at least while performing their duties. You remember your father coming home at the end of the day with the dull burn of scent blocker still on his clothes. 

Your head is still spinning a bit as you follow them out of the barracks and towards the mess hall. They seem to almost walk in a formation, though you suppose with years of having it drilled in your head, it’s almost second nature. You’re sandwiched between Soap and Gaz in the middle, Price in front and Ghost bringing up the rear. 

The other personnel on the base give your group a wide berth, and even in the mess you can feel the glances, but none of the stares linger. Price guides you next to him as you get your food, adding things to your tray for you. That tickling feeling starts again at the back of your neck as he makes your plate, your omega preening happily at the knowledge of what he’s doing. 

He’s proving his ability as a provider. 

In more primordial times he might have gone out and hunted for food to bring back to you to prove his capabilities. Even in more modern times, he might have hunted as some alphas still did, or he would have gone to the store to keep the fridge stocked full of food. Alphas are good at adapting to their surroundings and situations. He’s proving his capabilities in the way he can. 

You’re also silently grateful to not have to think too hard about the choices in front of you. Even after a week, British food is still a bit unfamiliar to you. It’s not entirely indiscernible, though, and you’re sure you could pick out things that sounded good if you had to. At this moment, though, with your head still reeling a bit and the unsettling energy of a new place filled with unknown alphas and betas, you’re happy to let Price do it for you. 

He carries your tray and his to a table, sitting you next to him. Gaz takes your other side, Soap and Ghost sitting across from you. The choices in their seating arrangement don’t feel quite so random to you, and you quickly realize the arrangement is similar to the room setup in the barracks. 

A beta for each alpha, you think. Gaz and Price. Soap and Ghost. 

Then there’s you, stuck somewhere in the middle of them. Somehow you’ll fit between them, squeezing into their perfect dynamic. Omegas are supposed to help balance packs, but as you sit with the four members of your new pack, you can’t help but feel like you’re only going to make things more difficult. 

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